“Hateful old thing!” cried Babe, when they were once more outside. “The idea of talking that way to us, just because we’re Americans. What has he got against America, I should like to know?”
“Never mind him,” said Betty soothingly. “His post-cards are perfectly lovely. Now let’s get the sweet chocolate for those poor hungry girls.”
“Oh, what fascinating little cakes,” cried Babe rapturously, stopping before a pastry-cook’s window. “Don’t you suppose they’d rather have those than just ordinary sweet chocolate? It would be such fun buying them.”
“It’s fun buying anything over here with this queer English money,” laughed Betty. “Doesn’t it seem to you just like toy money, Babe?”
Babe nodded. “And when I spend it I don’t feel as if I were spending real money at all. It’s the loveliest feeling that whatever you buy doesn’t matter a bit, as long as toy money will pay for it.”
“Let’s buy four of the buns and three of the chocolaty ones and an odd one for you, because you don’t like chocolate,” said Betty, returning to the cakes.
They got back to the shoe-shop, with their bag of cakes, just in time to find Madeline tying on her mended shoe.
“Let’s save the cakes till we get home,” she proposed. “We can eat them while we’re reading about Flora Macdonald. Oh, let me see your post-cards. What beauties! Show us where they came from, this minute.”
“All right, only prepare to be insulted if you go inside,” said Babe, and she told the story of their experience.
“Crusty old party, isn’t he?” said Madeline. “Oh, I know what! I can do a beautiful English accent. I’ll go in and make him think I’m English. Then he’ll talk to me confidentially about America.”