"I want him for my father's Christmas present."
"Impossible," coldly; "he is not for sale."
He was still patient. "He will make you another—many others."
He had her attention now. "Make—elephants?"
"Yes. He needs only a pattern. There are certain things he has forgotten. I should like to make him happy."
Miss Emily, hostilely convinced that it was not her business to contribute to the happiness of any octogenarian Hun, shook her head, "I'm sorry."
"Then you won't sell him?"
"Certainly not."
He still lingered. "You love your toys—I have been here before, and I have watched you. They are not just sawdust and wood and cloth and paint to you—they are real—"
"Yes."