They had reached the nursery by this time, and Dulcie paused in the act of turning up the gas.
“Paul,” she said, impressively, “I think you are one of the nicest boys in this world. If you’d lived in the time of the martyrs, I’m almost sure you would have been one. That saint boy who stood and shouted that he was a Christian, while they were shooting him with arrows, was about the bravest one I ever read about, but if you’d been alive then, I believe you’d have done just the same.”
Paul was very much flattered.
“Perhaps I might,” he admitted, modestly. “I’d like to read about him. Have you got the book?”
“No, I got it out of the library, but I can try to get it again, if you would like to read it. Do you think you will really be able to swallow that castor oil without telling you didn’t eat all that fruit?”
Paul nodded reassuringly.
“I can do anything I make up my mind to,” he said. “I’d rather do ’most anything than not be allowed to go and see Miss Polly again. I’ve thought of lots of interesting things to tell her. I’m sure she’d like to hear about our telephone.”
“What’s a telephone?” inquired Molly, who had never heard the word before.
“Oh, it’s a wonderful thing. It’s like a speaking tube, only you have to ring a bell, and then you hear a voice asking what number you want, and you say, and if it’s the number of your father’s office, and he’s there, he answers you. Not many people have telephones in their houses yet, but we have one, and Father says he wouldn’t be surprised if some day everybody had them, and you would be talking from New York to Boston, just as easy as you call down to Bridget through the tube.”
This last announcement was almost too great a strain on politeness.