So Billy came up to her, his friendly face shining with joy. “Hello!” he said.
The child Maida was just aching to take his hand, and cling to him, but before it could happen another cold speech fell from her lips.
“If you wish to converse with me,” she observed haughtily, “please have some one give you an introduction, for, of course, you understand no grown-up young lady can speak to a total stranger.”
Think of it! To Billy, too! My goodness, but he was hurt!
“Don’t you know Santa Claus, Maida?” asked the old fellow, greatly troubled.
She looked at him coldly. “Oh, I know,” she said, “you’re that amusing old myth I met when I was a little girl, long ago.” (And it did seem long ago.)
“A myth!” gasped Santa Claus. “Me? Don’t you believe in me?”
“You must consider me very unsophisticated,” answered Maida. (And the big word didn’t bother her a bit now that she was a grown-up.) “You don’t exist. You couldn’t exist. You’re a figment of the imagination.”
There—it was out! She didn’t believe in Santa Claus! Yet there he stood before her. Clearly one had to lose much to be grown up.
Poor Billy made one more effort. “Why, you and I used to be such great friends,” he said, smiling sadly at Maida.