“No, papa dear; Fuzzy—that’s what we was going to call him.”
“Well, darling, Fuzzy shall be your very own. You shall go to see him in the stables whenever you like; I’ll tell Mellor. And he will go out walks with you—the puppy, I mean, not Mellor—as soon as ever he has learnt to follow.” This made Mary laugh again. The idea of Mellor going out a walk with them all, following behind like a well-behaved dog. For Mellor was not very young, and he had a broad red face and was rather fat.
Papa was pleased to hear Mary laughing, even though it was rather a shaky little laugh, and he went on to explain more.
“You see he’s not the sort of dog that you can have in the house, particularly not in the nursery,” he said. “Indeed, I hardly think that any dog except a very old and tried one is safe in a nursery, above all, where there’s such a little baby as—”
“Dolly,” said Mary quietly, to show that she had not forgotten what baby was to be called.
“Yes, as Dolly,” her father went on. “They would be two babies together, and they might hurt each other without meaning it. Dolly might pull Fuddle’s hair—”
At this all three children burst out laughing, quite a hearty laugh this time.
“Oh, papa dear,” said Mary, “what a very bad mem’ry you’ve got! It isn’t Fuddle! Can’t you say Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy, Fuzzy, Fuzzy,” said papa, speaking like the three bears turned the wrong way. “There, now, I think I’ve got it into my stupid old head at last. Well, as I was saying, Miss Dolly might pull Master Fuzzy’s hair, without meaning to hurt him of course, and he might turn round and snap at her, not exactly meaning to hurt her either, but still—it might be rather bad, you see.” Mary’s face grew very grave.
“I never thought of that,” she said solemnly. “It would be dedful for dear little baby Dolly to be hurted, though I’m kite sure Fuzzy wouldn’t mean it.”