She spoke very plainly for a child of little more than three years, for she had been brought up with grown people.
“Oh, Daddy, won’t you love me any more?” she cried. “Won’t you let Cyria sit on your knee?”
“Of course, I will,” he said. “Don’t believe any of this nonsense.”
“But the bad boy said you had only two knees, and where would I go?”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Mr. Bonstone gravely, “we’ll strap an artificial knee on Daddy for one of the babies—the boy for example. My right knee belongs to you, my first little girl.”
“Daddy, what’s a ’dopted baby?” she asked pitifully.
“A ’dopted baby is something a little better than your own baby,” said Mr. Bonstone.
The child suddenly threw her arms round his neck. “Daddy, you is sweeter than the roses.”
Mr. Bonstone kissed her very affectionately, then he said, “Come, see the new babies. You must choose one for your own, and I will choose one.”