"I have a bad nose, too."
"What's the matter with your nose?" asked the Rag Doll smiling.
"The joint is injured and some of the fur has come off my head—in fact, I am as bald as the ball of an eighteen-penny bagatelle-board," and I contrived (with the assistance of the draught) to roll away a little.
"You find carriage exercise good for your poor nose?" bubbled the Rag Doll.
Now when the Rag Doll bubbles—an operation which includes a sudden slipping down the shelf, the lighting up of glass eyes, a dart of a kid-covered arm with vague fingers, and a gurgling gust of slipping drapery—I am in the habit of ceasing to argue the question.
"Well, your fall will not damage the machinery. You have nothing to do but look—you understand. While I have to beat my tambourine with my drumsticks."
"But I won't fall upon you. I reserved my weight for the warrior that was once valued at five shillings and is now reduced to half-a-crown."
"Because you—educated him?"
"Yes. And now he cuts me dead! Why he will be bought by some one with poorer means, and will be all the more appreciated."
"Of course you did not care for the impoverished soldier?"