Her smile was more tired than she knew.
“I suppose I do,” he said; “one does at bazaars, don’t you know.”
“Do you want a Christmas present?” asked Judy, businesslike; “if so, and if you will tell me what kind of relation you want it for, perhaps I can find something that they’d like.”
“Could you? Now, that is really good. I want things for two aunts, three cousins, a little sister, and my mother—but I needn’t get hers here unless you’ve got something you think really—By Jove!”—his eyes had caught the sketches—“are those for sale?”
“That is rather the idea,” said Judy. Her spirits were rising, though she couldn’t have told you why. “Things at a bazaar are usually for sale, aren’t they?”
“Everything?” said he—and he stroked the not resentful neck of Alcibiades; “this good little beast isn’t in the market, I’m afraid?”
“Why? Would you buy him?”
“I’d think twice before I said no. My mother is frightfully fond of dogs.”
Quite unreasonably Judy felt that she did not want to sell Alcibiades as a present to any one’s mother.
“The sketches,” she said.