Barbara knit her fine dark brows a little over the birthday book with its quaint inscription.
“I shouldn’t like you to suppose that was the way to spell valuable information,” she said crisply. “Suppose we put another card over this one, dear. I’ll write it for you.”
Jimmy pondered this proposal in silence for a few minutes, then he shook his head.
“I want my book to be ’zactly like Peg’s,” he said firmly. “It’s a val’able inf’mation book; that’s what it is.”
He kept it by him all the while they were eating their supper off the pink and white china Grandfather Embury brought from foreign parts, while the seven candles cast bright lights and wavering shadows across the table on the boy’s rosy little face and the girl’s darker beauty.
“Peg’s comin’ in’s soon’s he puts on his swallow-tail,” said Jimmy placidly. “I like Peg better’n anybody, ’ceptin’ you, Barb’ra. He’s so durned square.”
“You shouldn’t say such words, Jimmy,” Barbara said, with a vexed pucker between her brows. “You must remember that you are a gentleman.”
“So is Peg a gentleman,” said Jimmy, valiantly ready to do battle for his friend. “An’ he says durned.”
Barbara shook her head impatiently at the child.