“Paint it!” repeated Maisie vaguely; but meeting a look of scorn from Dennis, she hastily added: “Oh, you mean the jackdaws’ house; but you are pleased about the kitten, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” answered Dennis rather impatiently, “but that’s only a chance, you see. If it is the kitten, it is; and if it isn’t, it isn’t. But the jackdaws’ house is a real thing, and we must settle about the colour. How do you think,” he went on seriously, “it would do to have it the same colour that Tuvvy’s going to do the elevator? He might let us have some of his paint, you see.”
“I shouldn’t like it at all,” said Maisie promptly; “he said it was to be a sort of a yaller, and I thought it sounded very ugly.”
“Well, then,” said Dennis, “you say a colour.”
Maisie thought it over, her eyes fixed on the meadows and the fast-falling rain outside.
“I should paint it green,” she said suddenly.
“Why?” asked Dennis.
“Because it’s a pretty colour,” she replied, “and the jackdaws would like it. It’s like the leaves and grass, and they might think they were in a tree.”
Dennis received the idea with a short laugh of contempt.
“Jackdaws are not such ninnies as that,” he said. “They’re sharp birds; they’re not likely to mistake a cage for a tree. If we don’t have it yellow, let’s have it bright red, like Mr Solace’s new wagon.”