"Perhaps, dear."
"Oh!" the little chap's delight required no fuller expression.
"Ot's oo doing?"
"Knitting, darling—there, rest quiet on my knee."
"Ot is it—knitting—stockings for oo little boy?"
"I have no little boy, sweetheart. They are mittens for a gentleman."
"How pooty! Ot's a gentleman?"
"A man, dear. Mr. Drayton is a gentleman, you know."
"Oh!" Then after a moment's sage reflection, "Me knows—a raskill."
"Willy!"