“Stop it, you crazy thing!” insisted Dulcie, administering a gentle slap which sent the cat bucketing and corvetting across the lawn, where the eccentric course of a dead leaf, blown by the April wind, instantly occupied its entire intellectual vacuum.
Barres, leaning on the window-sill, said, without raising his voice:
“Hello, Dulcie! How are you, after our party?”
The child looked up, smiled shyly her response through the pale glory of the April sunshine.
“What are you doing to-day?” he inquired, with casual but friendly interest.
“Nothing.”
“Isn’t there any school?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“That’s so. Well, if you’re doing nothing you’re 95 just as busy as I am,” he remarked, smiling down at her where she stood below his window.
“Why don’t you paint pictures?” ventured the girl diffidently.