"Precisely! Little Tim! Would you deprive him of such an opportunity as this?"
"Oh, you would never take the money away from him, Rose—now?"
"But it is not his, yet! It never can be, unless you will take him for your son—for your own little boy, Eleanor! Think of it!"
"I do think of it! I haven't thought of anything else."
"Except, my dear, that you, too, will benefit by the plan! So you are trying to refuse. Don't be selfish, Eleanor!"
"Selfish? To deny myself what I want most in the world?"
"You and Tim seem to know your own minds! When I asked him if I should adopt him, he plumped down on the floor and yelled for his White Lady."
"Rose! Don't make it so hard!"
"It is you who are making it hard! I have grown very fond of Timmy, and I should hate, just hate to see him go back to the Charities. Think of the poor mite being scrubbed up and dressed in a clean striped gingham, and brought out to be inspected by possible adopters! Think how he will feel when they say, 'Oh, I don't think we want a little boy with hip disease!' or 'Haven't you any—er—prettier children?'
"Oh, Rose!" Eleanor put her hands over her eyes, while Rosamund drew her down to one of Mrs. Hetherbee's Louis Quinze settees.