"I thought you mightn't like her. Mummy says she's so ugly."
"Oh, bring her out. Let's have a look at her! How did she lose her head?"
"Patsy bit it off and ate it—at least she ate the face. It made her sick."
"Who's Patsy?" He was glad that Margaret had now put the doll back in her lap; he took that for a mark of confidence. "Is she your dog?"
"No, she's Judith's; but she lives here always and Judith doesn't. I wish Judith did."
"What's dolly's name?"
"Judith."
"I see you like Judith very much, don't you? The real Judith—as well as dolly?"
"Yes, very much. Don't you?"
"Yes, very much." And then the conversation languished. Arthur was only moderately apt with children, and Margaret's words had come slowly and with an appearance of consideration; she did not at all suggest a chatterbox. But presently she gave him a look of timid enquiry, and remarked in a deprecating way "I expect you don't like guinea-pigs. Most people don't. But if you did, I could show you mine. Only if you're sure you like guinea-pigs!"