Judy's attire had been remodelled throughout, as a prelude to the hour in the drawing-room before bed-time; and she was now sitting on the window seat in a mood of subdued and passive triumph. "Go agen," she had murmured softly two or three times to herself, too much occupied with the sweets of memory to heed, as she otherwise would have done, Punch's aggravations.
Stamping round being deprived of its attraction, Punch paused and approached his sister.
"Poor Doody," he said pityingly.
Judy's eyes flashed in the manner which always made Punch conscious of wonder that he had felt called upon to speak. He hastened to appease her.
"Punch's boots a-comin' off," he said.
"Doody don't want no boots," she said shrilly; "never don't want no boots, Doody don't."
"No," agreed Punch, in the tone of one who humours. "Ain't been out to tea," he suggested.
"Has!" screamed Judy. "Doody has!"
The blue eyes looked searchingly into the dark ones, and, with a qualm of disappointment, Punch felt the force of truth.