“A nose like that! A nose like what?” I exclaimed, greatly offended; and though I put up my hand and very tenderly and carefully felt it, I could find no difference in it. “I am afraid poor Miss Robinson must have a wretched life,” I said, in tones of deep disgust.
The little girl smiled fatuously, as though I were paying her compliments. “It’s all green and brown,” she said, pointing. “Is it always like that?”
Then I remembered the wet fir tree near the gate, and the enraptured kiss it had received, and blushed.
“Won’t it come off?” persisted the little girl.
“Of course it will come off,” I answered, frowning.
“Why don’t you rub it off?”
Then I remembered the throwing away of the handkerchief, and blushed again.
“Please lend me your handkerchief,” I said humbly, “I—I have lost mine.”
There was a great fumbling in six different pockets, and then a handkerchief that made me young again merely to look at it was produced. I took it thankfully and rubbed with energy, the little girl, intensely interested, watching the operation and giving me advice. “There—it’s all right now—a little more on the right—there—now it’s all off.”
“Are you sure? No green left?” I anxiously asked.