At that she clapped her hands and jumped up and down. "Why, I've got one!" she cried.
"Oh?" said the little old gentleman. "Thought so. I always keep a supply on hand. Carve 'em myself, out of cube sugar."
"Oh, aren't they funny!" She leaned above the shallow dish.
"Funny?" repeated the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Not when they get into the wrong mouth!—a wry mouth, for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth should go, you understand, only with a sweet face."
"Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired.
"Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically.
She watched him in silence for a while. Then, "You don't mind telling me who's going to have that?" she ventured, pointing a finger at the nose.
"This? Oh, this is for a certain little boy's father."
She blinked thoughtfully. "Is his name," she began—and stopped.
"His father—the unfortunate man—has been keeping his own nose to the grindstone pretty steadily of late, and so—"