“That’s its tail,” said George. “You’ll know its head from its tail when you come to ride one, Margery,” cried he, throwing his laughing glance at the woman.
“Me ride an elephant! me mount one o’ them animals!” was the indignant response. “I should like to see myself at it! It might be just as well, sir, if you didn’t talk about them to the child: I shall have her starting out of her sleep screaming to-night, fancying that a score of them’s eating her up.”
George laughed. Meta’s busy brain was at work; very busy, very blithesome just then.
“Papa, do we have swings in India?”
“Lots of them,” responded George.
“Do they go up to the trees? Are they as good as the one Mrs. Pain made for me at the Folly?”
“Ten times better than that,” said George slightingly. “That was a muff of a swing, compared with what the others will be.”
Meta considered. “You didn’t see it, papa. It went up—up—oh, ever so high.”
“Did it?” said George. “We’ll send the others higher.”
“Who’ll swing me?” continued Meta. “Mrs. Pain? She used to swing me before. Will she go to India with us?”