"As a what?" she cried in amazement.
"I said boy. B-o-y. Easy word."
She stared at me for a moment or two as if I was mad, and then her eyes lit up and she burst out laughing. "Do you know why I'm laughing?"
"At me, probably."
"Not a bit of it. Because it's exactly the idea I had. I have the clothes ready for it and a set of overalls; and often and often I've locked myself in my room, dressed up, and rehearsed everything. You know how I've played a boy's part in the theatricals at home; I can shove my hands in my pockets and swagger along just like one. I make rather a good boy."
"Good?"
"Good enough for a boy, anyhow," she replied, laughing again.
"Show me."
She rose, pushed hands down as if into her trouser pockets, and walked up and down the room with a free stride. "Give us a fag, mate," she said when she reached me. "That all right?" she asked, relapsing into herself and sitting down again.
"Rather! Ripping! Why, you managed somehow to alter the very expression." She had. The change was wonderful. "With a touch or two of make-up not a soul would spot you. But you were always a bit of a boy, you know. Perhaps that accounts for it."