"A button," she cried. "A dear little button!" She thought for a moment. "What's a button?"
This was ridiculous.
"You don't mean to say," I reproached her, "that I've got to tell you now what a button is. That," I added severely, pointing to the top of my waistcoat, "is a button."
"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the next one.
I looked at her in horror. Then I began to talk very quickly. "There was once a balloon," I said rapidly, "a dear little boy balloon—I mean toy balloon, and this balloon was a jolly little balloon just two minutes old, and he wasn't always asking silly questions, and when he fell down and exploded himself they used to wring him out and say, 'Come, come now, be a little airship about it,' and so——"
"What's 'at?" asked Margery, pointing to the top button.
There was only one way out of it. I began to sing a carol in a very shrill voice.
All the artist rose in Margery.
"Don't sing," she said hurriedly; "Margie sing. What shall Margie sing, uncle?"
Before I could suggest anything she was off. It was a scandalous song. She began by announcing that she wanted to be among the boys, and (anticipating my objections) assured me that it was no good kicking up a noise, because it was no fun going out when there weren't any boys about, you were so lonely-onely-onely....