“You would have full charge of her. We live in the country from April till Thanksgiving, and in town the rest of the time.”
“Come on, Ann, let’s go; I’m tired,” interrupted Isabelle.
“But you aren’t letting this baby decide who is to take care of her?” she protested.
“I thought it was better. She gets rid of one a month, so in the end she does decide.”
“But it’s so absurd.”
“We’re—we’re an absurd family,” he admitted, gravely.
“Don’t talk, Wally; come on.”
“What does she call you?” Miss Barnes inquired.
“Wally. My name is Walter, but every one calls me Wally. She calls her mother Max. We try to break her of it, but we can’t.”