"Impossible," said the Lady.
"Or if Bermuda's too far," insisted our Uncle Peter. "What about Atlantic City? Think how Dicky would enjoy romping on the board walk—while you followed more sedately of course in a luxurious wheel chair!—The most diverting place in the world!—Yes quite surely you must go to Atlantic City!"
The Lady made a little gasp as though her Patience was bursted.
"You don't seem to understand," she said. "I tell you it's quite impossible!"
"W-H-Y?" said our Uncle Peter. He said it sharply like a Teacher. It HAD to be answered.
The Lady looked up. She looked down. She looked sideways. She wrung her hands in her lap. Her face got sort of white.
"It isn't very kind of you," she said, "to force me so to a confession of poverty."
"'Poverty'?" laughed our Uncle Peter. He looked around at the furniture,—at the toys,—at the pictures. It was at most everything that he looked around. He seemed to be very cheerful about it.
The Lady didn't like his cheerfulness.
"Oh I've always had a little for myself," she explained. "Enough for one person to live very simply on. But NOW——? With this strange little boy on my hands,—I—I intend to go to work!"