"They are only girls," said Aubrey disdainfully. "Not angels."
"Do angels have red hair?" asked Boodles.
"Only a very few," said the boy. "Boodles—and one or two others whose names I can't remember just now. It's not red hair, sweetheart. It's golden, and your beautiful skin is golden too, and there is a lot of gold-dust scattered all over your nose."
"Freckles," laughed Boodles. "Aubrey, you silly! Calling my ugly freckles gold-dust! Why, I hate them. When I look in the glass I say to myself: 'Boodles, you're a nasty little spotted toad.'"
"They are just lovely," declared the boy. "They are little bits of sunshine that have dropped on you and stuck there."
"I'm not sticky."
"You are. Sticky with sweetness."
"What a dear stupid thing!" sighed Boodles. "Let me kiss your lovely pink and white girl's face—there—and there—and there."
"Boodles, dear, I haven't got a girl's face," protested Aubrey.
"Oh, but you have, my boy. It's just like a girl's—only prettier. If I was you, and you was me—that sounds rather shocking grammar, but it don't matter—every one would say: 'Look at that ugly boy with that boodle-oodle, lovely, butiful girl.' There! I've squeezed every bit of breath out of him," cried Boodles.