"I can spell cat," she whispered.
"Spell it," commanded Chris. "Sharp!"
"C-a-t," began Ivy, and from sheer force of habit she said what she did not mean to say—"tac."
Chris went into roars of laughter. He shook beneath her like a small earthquake. He clutched Ivy, to keep her from rolling over, and roared afresh with fit after fit of merriment, each following closely on the last. Never before had the calm and decorous walls of "The Cottage" echoed to such peals of laughter.
Ivy grew redder and redder, more and more shamefaced.
"Tac! Tac! Tac!" gasped Chris. "Oh, you little goosey-gander! So I s'pose you'd say, 'Come here, pretty tac! Stroke tac's tail!' Oh, I say!"
"C-a-t—cat," spelt Ivy with dignity.
Chris began to recover himself. "Now you're going to say that sixteen times, to get it right," he ordered. "Come—quick—c-a-t—cat, c-a-t—cat!"
Ivy obeyed orders. She spelt the word sixteen times, patiently, and then hid her blushing face against his shoulder.
Chris didn't mind—much—as they were alone. He was rather gratified than otherwise. Had he known that Miss Anne was standing in the doorway, looking on with great enjoyment, he would have promptly changed the position of affairs.