"'Grander than the Park'!" says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected fervor. "How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can think as you please, of course,"—with reproachful scorn,—"but it is not grander than the Park."
"I meant larger, ninny," soothingly.
"It is not larger."
"But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?"
"How can you say so when you haven't been round it?"
This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says:
"Thomas—that's the groom that drove me—says it is."
"Thomas!"—with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; "and what does Thomas know about it? It is not larger."
Silence.
"Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here," says nurse, tenderly returning to the charge.