Betty danced across to him and put her sun-tanned face close to his fair freckled one.
"How would you like to be very rich?" she said, "and to have a pony of your own, and jelly and things to eat, and a lovely house to live in, and——"
"Don't be so silly, Betty," said the boy irritably.
Betty wagged her head. "I've got a thought," she said.
"Your silly-old pearl-seeking is no good. There are no pearls, so there," said Cyril crossly. "You needn't go thinking you really take me in. It's only a game—bah!"
Betty was still dancing around him in a convincing, yet aggravating way.
"How'd you like to be adopted, Cywil?" she asked—"really adopted, not pretending? Oh, I've got a very big thought, and it wants a lot of thinking. You go on getting your wood while I think."
And Cyril gave her one of his old respectful looks as he went out of the kitchen door.