While Marcus was talking to the girl the elderly woman stooped forward—and drew Shan’t towards her. “Shan’t, darling,” she said, “don’t tell Uncle Marcus I know you. For a joke, let’s pretend.”
“Let’s!” said Shan’t, enchanted. She required no more than a hint, and when Marcus came back, deeply engaged to supper, he found the two talking—making conversation.
“Have you many children?” asked Shan’t, sitting down on an inverted tin bucket.
“No—I have no children.”
“That’s—a pity, isn’t it?”
“Yes—it’s a great pity.”
“No boys—not one? Perhaps you’ve forgotten—? You might have one or two—perhaps in the toy cupboard—”
“Not one.”
“Oh, dear—I hope your little dog is quite well?”
“Thank you very much—but my little dog is dead.”