"Play with three boys all by myself. Kathleen—who is Mrs. Severn, our guardian—is always with us when we are permitted to speak to other boys and girls."
"That's babyish," remarked Duane in frank disgust. "You are a mollycoddle."
The deep red of mortification spread over Scott's face; he looked shyly at Naïda, doubly distressed that a girl should hear the degrading term applied to him. The small girl returned his gaze without a particle of expression in her face.
"Mollycoddles," continued Duane cruelly, "do the sort of things you do. You're one."
"I—don't want to be one," stammered Scott. "How can I help it?"
Duane ignored the appeal. "Playing with three boys isn't anything," he said. "I play with forty every day."
"W-where?" asked Scott, overwhelmed.
"In school, of course—at recess—and before nine, and after one. We have fine times. School's all right. Don't you even go to school?"
Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak. Naïda, with a flirt of her kilted skirts, had abruptly turned her back on him; yet he was miserably certain she was listening to her brother's merciless catechism.
"I suppose you don't even know how to play hockey," commented Duane contemptuously.