“No, young man: and Mademoiselle Duvernoy is not my daughter, nor my cousin, aunt or wife,” I said hastily, with a fear of coming questions. “And if you will promise, solemnly promise, not to ask another question, I’ll tell you the story of ‘Puss-in-Boots’.”
“I know ‘Puss-in-Boots’!”
“Well, ‘Cinderella and the Glass Slipper’.”
“I know ‘Cinderella’.”
“Well, what don’t you know?”
“I like the story of the Bears,” said the youngster decidedly.
“Humph! Now, that is funny,” I said, to gain time, for my memory was not of the clearest. To save the situation, I decided to improvise. “That is funny, because,—do you know, that reminds me of myself and my brothers. What do you think they called us? ‘Big Dale, Little Dale, Weeny Dale, and No Dale at All’!”
“You look like a bear,” said the youngster gravely.
“So they say. Well, once upon a time there was a little girl,—a very little girl, with the most wonderful golden hair in the world. She was called—”