Ailie sat herself down on the floor and drew the child upon her knees. She had a way of doing that which made her look like a lass in her teens; indeed, it was most pleasing if the banker-man could just have seen it! “A gold key,” she repeated, lovingly, in Bud's ear. “A key to a garden—the loveliest garden, with flowers that last the whole year round. You can pluck and pluck at them and they're never a single one the less. Better than sweet-pease! But that's not all, there's a big garden-party to be at it—”
“My! I guess I'll put on my best glad rags,” said Bud. “And the hat with pink.” Then a fear came to her face. “Why, Aunt Ailie, you can't have a garden-party this time of the year,” and she looked at the window down whose panes the rain was now streaming.
“This garden-party goes on all the time,” said Ailie. “Who cares about the weather? Only very old people; not you and I. I'll introduce you to a lot of nice people—Di Vernon, and—you don't happen to know a lady called Di Vernon, do you, Bud?”
“I wouldn't know her if she was handed to me on a plate with parsley trimmings,” said Bud, promptly.
“—Di Vernon, then, and Effie Deans, and Little Nell, and the Marchioness; and Richard Swivefler, and Tom Pinch, and the Cranford folks, and Juliet Capulet—”
“She must belong to one of the first families,” said Bud. “I have a kind of idea that I have heard of her.”
“And Mr. Falstaff—such a naughty man, but nice, too! And Rosalind.”
“Rosalind!” cried Bud. “You mean Rosalind in 'As You Like It?”'
Ailie stared at her with astonishment. “You amazing child!” said she, “who told you about 'As You Like It'?”
“Nobody told me; I just read about her when Jim was learning the part of Charles the Wrestler he played on six 'secutive nights in the Waldorf.”