Then:
“Don’t oo want some of my tandy?” she inquired, cooingly, as she offered him the paper.
Norman de Vere’s thoughtful gravity relaxed into a laugh, and he promptly put an arm about the plump form that had enthroned itself on his knee.
“I don’t want any candy, please,” he said, shutting his lips tight against the small thumb and finger that were conveying a pink lozenge to his lips; “but I’ll take a kiss.”
No sooner said than the rosebud mouth was pressed eagerly, softly upon his, sending an odd thrill through his whole frame, then she half whispered:
“I ’ove oo.”
“A case of love at first sight,” haw-hawed one of the irrepressibles across the aisle, and the baby shook her tiny pink-and-white fist at him and cried out, disdainfully:
“Go way! I don’t ’ove oo! Oo ain’t pritty!”
Everybody laughed except that slight, silent form like a statue of black marble in the front seat, and Norman de Vere asked with a smile:
“Won’t you tell me your name, little one?”