"Aren't you?" I asked, with big eyes.
"Well, that depends on how old you are, my dear."
"I'm too old for you to call your dear, unless you are old enough to be my Papa," was the sage retort of Baby Beechy.
"I'm over thirty," said the Prince.
"Yes, I know," said I. "I found the Almanach de Gotha on the table of our hotel at Cap Martin, and you were in it."
"Naturally," said the Prince, but he got rather red, as people always do when they find out that you know just how far over thirty they've really gone. "But I'm not married," he went on, "therefore you cannot think of me as of your papa."
"I don't think of you much as anything," said I. "I'm too busy."
"Too busy! Doing what?"
"Playing dolls," I explained.
"I wish you were a little older," said the Prince, with a good imitation of a sigh. "Ah, why haven't you a few years more?"