"Peese, Mittah Chahley," echoed Edmund in tones that would have melted a heart of stone.
Now if "man" was a disrespectful and familiar mode of address, "Chahlee" seemed a singularly inappropriate pseudonym for Mr. Wycherly.
Even Montagu giggled.
The matutinal service of biscuits was long overdue, Edmund grew impatient, and the corners of his rosy mouth drooped. "I've said 'Chahley,'" he announced reproachfully, "and you don't take me."
Mr. Wycherly looked beseechingly at Miss Esperance. "I think he has done his best," he said in deprecating tones, "it is a difficult name for a baby."
"Chahlee! Chahlee!" chirped Edmund, beginning to dance again. "Uppie! Uppie!" then turning to his aunt—"I've said 'im."
"You haven't said it right—but perhaps—" Miss Esperance wavered.
Edmund marched up to his aunt, placed both his dimpled elbows on her knees, and gazing earnestly into her face with bunches of unshed tears still hanging on his lashes, remarked vindictively: "I wis a gate bid ball would come and bounce at you."
Miss Esperance burst out laughing and stooped to kiss the red, indignant baby-face. "All the same, my dear son, you must learn to do what you are told."
"Me go wiv—Chahlee," Edmund announced triumphantly, as Mr. Wycherly lifted him up.