“Well, I must say one thing——”
“Did oo know, Mister Sir,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked, “that Sylvie ca’n’t count? Whenever she says ‘I must say one thing,’ I know quite well she’ll say two things! And she always doos.”
“Two heads are better than one, Bruno,” I said, but with no very distinct idea as to what I meant by it.
“I shouldn’t mind having two heads,” Bruno said softly to himself: “one head to eat mine dinner, and one head to argue wiz Sylvie—doos oo think oo’d look prettier if oo’d got two heads, Mister Sir?”
The case did not, I assured him, admit of a doubt.
“The reason why Sylvie’s so cross——” Bruno went on very seriously, almost sadly.
Sylvie’s eyes grew large and round with surprise at this new line of enquiry—her rosy face being perfectly radiant with good humour. But she said nothing.
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell me after the lessons are over?” I suggested.
“Very well,” Bruno said with a resigned air: “only she wo’n’t be cross then.”
“There’s only three lessons to do,” said Sylvie. “Spelling, and Geography, and Singing.”