He took off the immaculate topper and held it out towards her. "There," he said, "would you like to look at it?"
Fay carefully rubbed it the wrong way with a tentative woolly-gloved finger. "Plitty, high hat," she cooed. "Can plitty little Fay have it to keep?"
But the gentleman's admiration did not carry him as far as this. Somewhat hastily he withdrew his hat, smoothed it (it had just been ironed) and placed it on his head again. Then he became aware of the smiling faces and concentrated gaze of his neighbours; also, that the attractive round face that had given him so much pleasure had exchanged its captivating smile for a pathetic melancholy that even promised tears. He turned extremely red and escaped at the next station. Whereupon ungrateful little Fay, who had never had the slightest intention of crying, remarked loftily: "Tahsome man dawn."
When at last they reached the Zoo Meg took
it upon herself to remonstrate with her younger charge.
"You mustn't ask strangers for things, dear; you really mustn't—not in the street or in the train."
"What for?" asked Fay. She nearly always said, "What for" when she meant "Why"; and it was as hard-worked a phrase as "What nelse?"
"Because people don't do it, you know."
"They do—I've heard 'em."
"Well, beggars perhaps, but not nice little girls."