“Martini troupe.”
“And before that?”
“Oh! heaps of ’em.”
“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?”
“Nobody as I’d care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted.”
“How old are you?”
“I dunno.”
Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.
“Well, there’s the bed upstairs. It’s for you to decide.”
“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “is to make a fool of myself.”