‘Yes, that will do; I am called Caroline—I was named after my grandmother.’
‘I was named after my grandfather. I never saw him; he was dead long before I began.’
‘Was he? my grandfather is still alive,’ said Carrie. ‘But he is not like my father at all; I love my father more than any one.’
‘Well, do you know, Caroline, I do not love my father at all,’ said Phil with curious candour. As he spoke he turned and looked at Carrie with a pair of wonderfully glittering grey eyes.
‘O, what strange eyes you have, Phil! Why do they cut into me?’ cried Carrie.
Phil was rather offended. ‘My eyes are quite as good as yours, Caroline,’ he said. ‘I think I shall return to Peter.’ And with an air of great dignity he fell back a step or two. But Peter and Patty were deep in conversation, nor would they allow themselves to be interrupted for all Phil’s dignity. So after a minute or two of sullenness, Phil was forced to rejoin Carrie, and make overtures of peace by silently placing a hand on the hoop she trundled, and giving an interrogative grunt. Carrie had nothing to forgive: the pavement was clear before them for many tempting yards, and off they ran with shouts of pleasure.
‘This is where I live,’ said Phil, as they reached the house he had appeared from. ‘Look, Carrie, when Peter is in good temper, or if I can catch my father as he goes out, I can get them to put me on their shoulders, and then I am so high up that I can get my hand into the torch-snuffer; it comes out black, I can tell you!’
Carrie looked longingly at the torch-snuffer; she too would have liked to blacken her plump white fingers.
‘Shall I ask Peter? he looks pleased,’ said Phil.
‘Do,’ urged Carrie in great excitement, peering up into the snuffer. ‘ ’Tis like an iron nightcap,’ she added.