'A what?' I said, rather vexed, for Esmé is a sweet. She's not fat or lazy, and I don't think Denzil is—not extra, for such a little boy.
'She's just a sort of a butterfly,' said Geordie. 'She'd never mind anything for long. She'd just settle down for half a moment and then fly up again as merry as a sandboy.'
I could not help bursting out laughing. It was partly, I daresay, that I felt as if I must either laugh or cry. But Dods did mix up his—'similes,' I think, is the right word—so funnily! Hedgehogs and dormice and butterflies and sandboys, all in a breath.
'I don't see what there is to laugh at,' said Geordie, very grumpily again, though he had been getting a little brighter.
'No more do I, I'm sure,' I replied, sadly enough, and then, I think, Dods felt sorry.
'Where shall we go?' he said gently.
'Wherever you like—to the hut, I think. It is always nice there, and we can lock ourselves in if we hear the children coming,' I answered.
The hut, as we called it, was our very most favourite place. It was much more than you would fancy from the name, as you will hear before long. But we did not wait to go on talking, till we got there. The children's voices did not come any nearer, but died away in the distance, so we walked on quietly, without hurrying.
'Ida,' said Geordie after a bit, 'it's dreadful, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I agreed; 'I think it is.'