Bobby considered that. The little boy whose fathers was the Man Who Lets You Play with the Puppy had eight birthdays and the little boy whose mothers was the Lady Who Likes Little Boys had seven. But her little boy had gone away. Perhaps he wouldn't mind letting him have just one of his birthdays.
"Would he let me have just one of his birthdays?"
The lady remained perfectly still and did not answer. Bobby added wistfully:
"Just till I see what it's like? P'raps I wouldn't want it any more. If I did like it, then I could go on hunting for the birthdays I lost."
He knew before she spoke that her little boy wouldn't let him have one of his birthdays.
"Not his. I couldn't. Don't. . . . There, dear, go to sleep now and I'll. . . ."
She didn't finish what she was saying, but went quickly out, carrying her handkerchief to her face. Bobby was too tired to be very much disappointed, so tired that he fell asleep almost before the swishing of her dress had ceased to sound in his ears.
