‘Do you hurt much?’ asked Carrie, to whom pain was an unknown mystery and dignity.
‘Yes, my hands hurt most terribly; see, each finger is tied up by itself in a little bag—that is why I cannot play with anything.’
‘Shall I whistle to you?’ asked Carrie, struck by a sudden inspiration. ‘A friend of my father’s has taught me to whistle, and he says I do it to admiration.’ She jumped on to the edge of the bed, flung back her head, and whistled off a gay little roulade.
Phil laughed delightedly. ‘O do that again; you look like the poodles I saw in Paris. They threw back their heads and howled in a chorus,’ he cried.
‘Well, you pretend you are the other poodle,’ said Carrie; ‘I find it difficult whistling alone. Mr. Tillet, who teaches me, always whistles with me.’
‘Who’s Tillet?’ asked Phil.
‘He’s a soldier—a man my father knows.’
‘A soldier! oh, I suppose he will be a general—they are all generals,’ said Phil.
‘I think he is a bugler—is that the same?—something, I suppose; they all fight.’
‘Well, never mind; do it again, Carrie, ’tis such fun to see you.’