I was cut to the heart, dear Dairy. One of my dearest dreams has always been a delicate noze, slightly arched and long enough to be truly aristocratic. Not realy acqualine but on the verge. I hate my little noze—hate it—hate it—hate it.
“Father,” I said, rising and on the point of tears. “How can you! To taunt me with what is not my own fault, but partly heredatary and partly carelessness. For if you had pinched it in infansy it would have been a good noze, and not a pug. And——”
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “Why, Bab, I never meant to insult your noze. As a matter of fact, it’s a good noze. It’s exactly the sort of noze you ought to have. Why, what in the world would you do with a Roman noze?”
I have not been feeling very well, dear Dairy, and so I sudenly began to weap.
“Why, chicken!” said my father. And made me sit down on his knee. “Don’t tell me that my bit of sunshine is behind a cloud!”
“Behind a noze,” I said, feebly.
So he said he liked my noze, even although somwhat swolen, and he kissed it, and told me I was a little fool, and at last I saw he was about ready to be tackeled. So I observed:
“Father, will you do me a faver?”
“Sure,” he said. “How much do you need? Busness is pretty good now, and I’ve about landed the new order for shells for the English War Department. I—supose we make it fifty! Although, we’d better keep it a Secret between the to of us.”
I drew myself up, although tempted. But what was fifty dollars to doing somthing for Adrian? A mere bagatelle.