He flung a little pout at me, and then archly demanded, “Aren’t you good-natured yet, Choseph?”
I shook my head.
“You will be when you see Lentala,” he said with mock melancholy. “Don’t you like girls?” he suddenly fired at me.
“Y—es,” I stammered consciously.
“You like Annabel!” with a spitfire touch on his tongue.
“I once liked, very much, a dear lad named Beelo more than any girl.”
“Once liked Beelo!” His shining eyes were lances.
“I like him just as much yet—when he is Beelo.”
I knew by his start that the thin ice on which I walked was cracking.
“And what is he when he isn’t Beelo?”