“A doll,” he replied, turning to his daughter.
“For me,” she declared.
“No, me,” Gregory insisted.
Lee Randon shook his head. “Not you, in the least.”
“Of course not,” Helena supported him. “I should think it would make you sick, father, hearing Gregory talk like that. It does me. Why doesn't he ask for something that boys play with?”
“I don't want them, that's why,” Gregory specified. “Perhaps I'd like to have a typewriter.”
“You're not very modest.” It was Helena again.
“It's father, isn't it? It isn't you.”
“Listen,” Lee broke in, “I came up here to be with two good children; but where are they?”
“I'm one.” Helena, freeing herself definitely, closed her arms in a sweet warmth about his neck. “I'm one, too,” Gregory called urgently. “No,” his father pressed him back; “you must stay in bed. They are both here, I can see.”