“’Tilderann,” commanded Trixie Bell, insistently, “go upstairs and sit with mother at once, and tell her that Mr. Lancaster has called.” The little girl slid from the high stool again and disappeared reluctantly. “Up the stairs, I said,” remarked Trixie, looking round the corner after her, “I didn’t ask you to wait on the second step listening.”
Miss Bell returned demurely to the inner side of the counter.
“Girls,” she said, with an air of maturity, “want a lot of looking after.”
“Who looks after you?” asked Bobbie, leaning over the counter.
“Oh, I can take care of myself.”
“For one day, at any rate, I’m going to take care of you. Give me a kiss.”
“Bobbie! People can see through the shop window.”
“You won’t give me a kiss?”
“There’s a time,” said the pleasant-faced young woman, with great preciseness, “and a place for everything, and this is neither the time nor—”
One advantage of being trained as a British sailor is that you can vault over a counter and jump back again before anyone has time to protest.