“It's pretty warm, isn't it?” said Siward, coming up and seating himself on the same bench.
“Are you lame?” asked the child.
“Oh, a little.”
“Is your leg broken?”
“Oh, no, not now.”
“Is that your cat?”
Siward looked around; the cat was seated on the bench beside him. But he was accustomed to that sort of thing, and he caressed the creature with his gloved hand.
“Are you rich?” asked the child, shaking her blond curls from her eyes and staring up solemnly at him.
“Not very,” he answered, smiling. “Why do you ask?”
“You look rich, somehow,” said the child shyly.