"Exactly. That's his pet name. And there is a nice old fairy godmother who brews wonderful mixtures for Sandy and darns his socks and makes believe, when no one is listening, that she is his mother."
"I should love her, the honey!"
Treadwell stopped and gave a big, hearty laugh. Matilda Markham as a "honey" was about the most comical thing he had ever dreamed of.
"And is there"—the drawling sweetness of Cynthia's voice was moving Treadwell dangerously—"is there something young and pretty and mighty bright, too?"
"Yes." Treadwell's laugh was gone.
"A—girl—I reckon?"
"Yes, a girl—just girl enough, you know, to keep him—like—well—like other fellows."
"Oh!" Cynthia smiled, but her eyes grew as gray as the day; the blue faded from them. "I hope she is a mighty nice, upperty girl."
"I'm only playing, you know," Lans broke in. "I am imagining a life for Sandy something like your old secret life. It's all fun."
"You mean—Sandy has an—an imagination?"