"Bip? Bip?" she queried again insistently, pointing her finger at the visitor.
"What is it, Barbie?" her father asked gently.
"She means the Bishop," explained the Bishop's wife in disgusted tones. "That is what she was screaming all through the hall this morning, when I brought her from his study. It is a dreadful name. You must say 'Bishop,' little one," she commanded in deep tones, bending towards the baby.
Barbara was not easily frightened, but the atmosphere was stormy, and her dressing had been hurried. She glanced up into the stony eyes above her, and perhaps gauged the lack of sympathy. With a quiver of her rosy mouth she said faintly, "Barbedie say Bip," and having thus asserted herself, threw herself against her father's knees, her face buried. He afterwards related that he heard murmurs of the obnoxious monosyllable; but fortunately the situation was relieved by a piercing whistle that now sounded through the windows.
As she heard it, a delighted smile came over Barbara's lifted face—a kind of record of past delight and future hope. She raised her hand, and pointed vaguely at the outside world.
"Boy," she said ecstatically, wriggling hurriedly from her father's knee. It was Sandy's summons to his comrade, and she hastened to answer it.
"I think it is the Bethune boys on their way home from school," Mr. Pelham said apologetically.
"It certainly sounds like them—no one else could make such a dreadful noise," Mrs. Lytchett answered. "Are you going to let that child go out like that, with no shoes on, and in that dress? Ah, there!"
"What a remarkable apartment!"