“Poor dear—he shall be luxurious,” and the dauntless girl perched on his knee.
“What if I singe your whiskers—would you send an Armada? Aw—aw—pretty!—You do look sweet—doesn’t he suck prettily?”
“Do you envy me?” he asked, smiling whimsically.
“Ra—ther!”
“Shame to debar you,” he said, almost with tenderness.
“Smoke with me.”
He offered her the cigarette from his lips. She was surprised, and exceedingly excited by his tender tone. She took the cigarette.
“I’ll make a heifer—like Mrs. Daws,” she said.
“Don’t call yourself a cow,” he said.
“Nasty thing—let me go,” she exclaimed.
“No—you fit me—don’t go,” he replied, holding her.
“Then you must have growed. Oh—what great hands—let go. Lettie, come and pinch him.”
“What’s the matter?” asked my sister.
“He won’t let me go.”
“He’ll be tired first,” Lettie answered.
Alice was released, but she did not move. She sat with wrinkled forehead trying his cigarette. She blew out little tiny whiffs of smoke, and thought about it; she sent a small puff down her nostrils, and rubbed her nose.
“It’s not as nice as it looks,” she said.
He laughed at her with masculine indulgence.
“Pretty boy,” she said, stroking his chin.
“Am I?” he murmured languidly.
