“But, good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “Something has got to be done.”
“It’s going to be.”
“Who’s going to do it?”
“Me,” returned the Bonnie Lassie, who is least grammatical when most purposeful.
“Then,” said I, “the Fates may as well shut up shop and Providence take a day off; the universe has temporarily changed its management. Can I help?”
The Bonnie Lassie focused her gaze in a peculiar manner upon the exact center of my countenance. A sort of fairy grin played about her lips. “I wonder if—No,” she sighed. “No. I don’t think it would do, Dominie. Anyway, I’ve got six without you.”
“Including Phil Stacey?”
“Of course,” retorted the Bonnie Lassie. “It was he who came to me for help. I’m really doing this for him.”
“I thought you were doing it for Barbran.”
“Oh; she’s just a transposed Washington Squarer,” answered the tyrant of Our Square. “Though she’s a dear kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense.”