“Are you going to stay long with us, Cousin Pavlo?” demanded the undismayed Piotr.
“Fairly so, if you’ll permit it, my dear cousin.”
“I do! But it’s only because you are too old now to be a playmate that I like your being here.”
“You surprise me, Monsieur Piotr!” said Pavlo, who was quite genuinely amazed. “Might I so far venture as to ask what set objection you have against playmates?”
“It’s little darling Malou’s fault,” imperturbably explained Piotr. “Fancy, Cousin Pavlo, that some months ago she threatened to give me one—a playmate who would take her place and Papa’s, and toss the paume with me.”
“Well?” inquired Pavlo. “Was there anything offensive about that?”
Piotr’s face had turned a little pale, his eyes narrowing almost to slits.
“No,” he grumbled, “not as it turned out at last. But you see, Cousin Pavlo, it might have been different.”
“What might have been different?” insisted Pavlo. “Can’t you explain better than that, Piotr?”
“No!” the boy replied, his frank and open expression suddenly transformed into sulkiness. “I don’t like to talk about it. Come and see my soldiers, Cousin Pavlo; it will be much more pleasant. They are,” he continued, resuming his ordinary tone and mien, “Gardes-à-Cheval like yourself. And just think, Papa gave me a real, big, splendid camp, with a mess-tent and little isbas exactly like those at your camp—the soldiers are five inches tall, and the horses all in proportion.”