"What colour is it?" asked Anne-Marie.
"Pink, and white, and gold," said Nancy, kissing the child's shining hair.
"Well, in it, in the midst of the loveliest fairy-tale, somebody has come and written dreadfully silly, ugly words, like—like 'butter-bread.' I must take all those out, mustn't I? And put pretty words and pretty thoughts in instead. Otherwise nobody will like to read the book."
"No," said Anne-Marie, looking slightly dazed. "And will you put pictures in it?"
"Oh yes," said Nancy. "And I wish I could put rhymes into it too."
But that was not to be. Long explanations about boy and toy—rain and pain—fly and cry—far and star—left Anne-Marie bewildered and cross.
Nancy coaxed and petted her. "Just you say a rhyme! Only one. Now what rhymes with day?"
No. Anne-Marie did not know what rhymed with day.
"Play, of course, my goosie dear! Now what rhymes with dear?"
"Play," said Anne-Marie.