"Why?"
"Persons," quoth Sheila Pat, austerely, "can't take liberties with grown-ups. They can't talk to them if you don't wish them to," her pronouns getting somewhat mixed.
"Whom don't you want to talk to you?"
"That little boy—Stewart."
"But why not?" Nell peered at her laughingly through her hair.
"I know him. I've got him at home in that book Mrs. Norton gave me," laboriously wriggling out of the much-desired cotton frock. "He saves up all his pocket money in a money box and buys himself a new coat with it. And he'd sooner learn his Catchykism than play cricket. I know him!"
"Well," said Nell, tying on her hair ribbon, "of all the nasty little hard-hearted wretches you're the worst!"
"Oh, I'm very sorry he's lame," with belated consideration, "but I won't have him talk to me!"
"I don't believe he's a bit goody, poor little chap, and, anyway, why should he want to talk to you?"
This aspect of the case had not struck Sheila Pat. She considered it as she pulled on the cashmere frock.