“Yes, it is,” contradicted Barby sturdily. “And I shall say, ‘How do you do, my dear very own Mrs. Beebe, and pretty well I thank you mostly.’ I’ve heard Mrs. Higby say it.”
“You mustn’t say such things, Barby,” ordered Elyot, shaking her small sleeve with determination. “You don’t know how to make calls yet. Mamma wouldn’t like you to talk that way.”
“My mummy would,” declared Barby, shaking herself free, and panting from her exertions. “My mummy loves dear Mr. Beebe and dear Mrs. Beebe, and Barby loves them too. And I shall see all the shoes, all the little wee baby ones, and the great big ones, and I’m going to stay all day, and have pink sticks for dinner.” She turned her hot little face up at him, and struck off bravely again, but her feet dragged.
“You’re getting awfully tired,” said Elyot; “let’s go back.”
“No, no, no!” protested Barby, making all possible speed. So Elyot had nothing to do but to follow, which he did smartly, keeping close at her side.
“And they’ll be so s’prised to see us,” went on Barby, growing confidential. “Oh, dear me! why don’t their home ever come, I wonder.”
“Oh! we’re not half way there yet,” said Elyot cheerfully; “it’s off that way, so,” waving his arm down the winding road, “then it’s down this way,” sweeping off in the opposite direction.
“Oh, dear me!” said Barby, with a small sigh she could not suppress, “why is it so long, I wonder? Won’t it come sooner?”
“You better give me your hand,” said Elyot, looking down into the tired little face.
So Barby gave him her hand; and not caring much where she planted her feet, she pattered unsteadily on over the dusty road, letting Elyot do all the talking.