“He would at least know how to spell visitors, wouldn’t he?”
The wooden man stared at the cover. At sight of the title he was visibly shaken.
“It might be a typographical error,” he ventured. “But, if you know this Daisy Ashford, what’s her book about?”
“It’s about a man who—who was in love with—with a young woman,” lucidly explained Alice. “He was rather an old man, and—”
“Then Barrie wrote it!” interrupted the wooden man. “That ends that!”
“It doesn’t end anything,” cried Alice, almost in tears. “And he doesn’t write as many introductions as H. G. Wells, anyway!”
“O-ho!” said the wooden man. “Well?”
“Wells!” said Alice, sharply. “Wells, Wells! How many wells make a river?”
“Really,” admonished the wooden man, “you mustn’t get out of temper. I don’t like Wells any more than you do. I find it difficult to get to the bottom of them....” He fell to singing: