“To whom shall I write, then?”
“I don’t know, my darling.”
Sœurette reflected for a moment, biting her penholder.
“How do you write ‘Little Jesus’—say? Is it one word or two words?”
“Good!” thought Helia. “Now she’s writing to the Little Jesus.”
But some one came to divert their attention. There was a knock at the door, and Socrate came in with a cheek red and limping slightly.
Helia asked what was the matter.
“Oh, last evening, after leaving you, I had a fall. It is nothing,” Socrate hastened to say, not wishing to tell of his affair with Phil; and for a good reason.
“You must have hit something hard,” Helia said.
“Oh!” Socrate went on, in a rage at his red cheek and limping leg, “oh, why are you always spoiling that little girl? Cakes and dolls! Cakes only fatten her, and dolls are good only for Sunday!”