"Yes, grandmother," he said gravely.
"And of what are you thinking when you stare at me with such solemn eyes?" she went on, trying to smile and speak naturally. There was something in the boy's whole air and appearance so like his father that she was much shaken by it.
Bobby had one of those direct impulses of childhood that resemble inspiration.
"I was thinking that you're a quite young lady to be a grandmother," he replied politely.
This was the beginning of a real friendship between the two, for Lady Wychcote also had an inspiration. She rose abruptly, went to her escritoire, and unlocking a little drawer, took out a small parcel wrapped in silver paper.
"Robert," she said, "I think that what I'm going to give you will please you very much." And now a very human, kindly smile flickered over her thin lips as she added: "At least, it would please me if I were a little boy. It's dangerous, it's real, and it's something a real man has used."
Bobby took it from her. His face went pale with excitement. His fingers fumbled over the wrapping in his eagerness.
"Is it ... is it ... a spear?" he managed.
"A good guess," said his grandmother; "but not quite right...."
Then the last layer of paper came away, and in his hands was a little Arab dagger, in a sheath crusted with coral and turquoise. He went red now—and when he drew out the blade, and saw that it was indeed real and dangerous, he had a breathless moment of utter stillness, then turned and threw himself into Lady Wychcote's arms.