"You made a rhyme," murmured Erica sleepily.
"Oh, there's nothing I can't do if I like to try," said Duane modestly. "You know, I didn't say what kind of an ass I was, did I?"
"No. What kind are you?"
"A geni-ass."
"Oh! You are silly!" A gleam of fun struggled with the sadness in the child's face. "And I'm a horrid little pig, that's what I am."
"What rubbish!" said Duane hastily. "I say, Kitty, you haven't gone to sleep, have you? Do you know it's not much past seven o'clock?"
"Is that all? How awful! No, I don't feel a bit sleepy." She tried to imitate Duane's gay, careless flippancy. "What shall us do?"
"Well, something fairly primitive. Not even as elaborate as 'noughts and crosses,' seeing we've neither pencil nor paper."
"Nor much light to see with," added Kitty. "We shall have to pretend we're Indians in a wigwam."
"Or Eskimos in a snow hut. I hope you're warm enough, little Eskimo?"