"Has it?" he says, apparently unaware of the rapidity of my transition. "Then I wish I knew Barbara."
I laugh.
"I dare say you do."
"She is not much like you, I suppose?" he says, turning from the saint's straight and strict Greek profile to the engaging irregularity of mine.
"Not exactly," say I, with emphasis. "Ah!" (in a tone of prospective triumph), "wait till you see her!"
"I am afraid that I shall have to wait some time."
"The Brat—that is one of my brothers, you know—is the one like me," I say, becoming diffuse, as I always do, when the theme of my family is started; "we are like! We can see it ourselves."
"Is he one of the thick-skinned six that you told me about?"
"There are not six," cry I, impatiently. "I do not know what put it into your head that there were six; there are only three."
"You certainly told me there were six."