“I am sure these fowls have no merry thoughts,” said Kitty, trying to make a joke just because she felt so miserable.
A fat small boy, with cheeks the color and shape of suet-dumplings, was sitting apart by himself, gazing with a melancholy air at a tart that he had nibbled all round.
“I cannot finish it,” he said to Kitty, looking sadly at her. “I have shaken myself, but it makes no difference. There is no more room inside me.”
“Never mind, you’ll eat it by and by, when you are hungry again. It will taste better then,” said Kitty encouragingly.
“It could not taste better,” said the boy sadly. “It was a beautiful tart, all jam and almonds, with custard on the top. A lovely tart. I have eaten thirteen, all different. I feel a little sick. Ah!” he went on with a sigh that almost blew his tart away, “what a dreadful thing to have all those good things to eat and not to be hungry! I wish I were always hungry, and had always something good to eat.”
“But then you would do nothing but eat,” remarked Kitty, turning away.
“Nothing but eat tarts and cakes and sweets, never feel sick, never be interrupted; that must be heaven,” said the boy, nodding drowsily.
Kitty was leaving him with the toss of her head, the firm closing of her lips, and dilating of her nostrils that was her usual way of showing indignation, when she recollected that she did not know her way to Daddy Coax’s house.
“Please before you go to sleep,” she said, steadily looking over the boy’s head, but trying to make her voice sound pleasant, “would you tell me the way to Daddy Coax’s house?”