Phyllis Moore loosened the reins.
“If I run I shall make myself tired,” she replied demurely. “My governess told me to play quietly. I am going to wait up for father to-night.”
The air of maiden superiority jarred upon the little boy.
“I will wait up for father, too,” he announced sturdily. “Let’s both wait up.”
Phyllis looked more superior than ever.
“You are very silly, Leslie,” she returned. “How can you wait up for your father when he is dead?”
“What’s dead?” demanded Leslie, with wide-open eyes.
“Dead? Oh, it’s being put down in a hole in the ground and being covered with a lot of nasty earth, and then having a great flat stone plumped down on top of you. That’s what your father is.”
“He isn’t,” denied Leslie, with indignation.
“He is, or else you would not be the Earl of Chesterwood.”