Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him the rare pleasure of a day in the society of the Commissioner’s child—the wilful four-year-old Patsie, who, to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, was idolized by her parents. On thinking the question out at length, by roads unknown to those who have left childhood behind, he came to the conclusion that Patsie was petted because she wore a big blue sash and yellow hair.
This precious discovery he kept to himself. The yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his own tousled wig being potato-brown; but something might be done toward the blue sash. He tied a large knot in his mosquito-curtains in order to remember to consult Patsie on their next meeting. She was the only child he had ever spoken to, and almost the only one that he had ever seen. The little memory and the very large and ragged knot held good.
“Patsie, lend me your blue wiband,” said His Majesty the King.
“You’ll bewy it,” said Patsie, doubtfully, mindful of certain fearful atrocities committed on her doll.
“No, I won’t—twoofanhonor. It’s for me to wear.”
“Pooh!” said Patsie. “Boys don’t wear sa-ashes. Zey’s only for dirls.”
“I didn’t know.” The face of His Majesty the King fell.
“Who wants ribands? Are you playing horses, chickabiddies?” said the Commissioner’s wife, stepping into the veranda.
“Toby wanted my sash,” explained Patsie.
“I don’t now,” said His Majesty the King, hastily, feeling that with one of these terrible “grown-ups” his poor little secret would be shamelessly wrenched from him, and perhaps—most burning desecration of all—laughed at.