“I wish I was a boy,” she said plaintively, “then I shouldn’t mind her. Are you a sailor-boy?”
“Sailor,” corrected Henry; “yes.”
“I like sailors,” said the small girl amicably. “You may have a bite of my apple if you like.”
“Never mind, thanks,” said Henry hastily; “I’ve got a clean one here.”
The small girl drew herself up and eyed him haughtily, but finding that he was not looking at her resumed her apple.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“’Enery Hatkins,” replied the youth, as he remembered sundry cautions about the letter h he had received at school. “What’s yours?”
“Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt,” said the small girl, sitting up straighter to say it. “I don’t like the name of Atkins.”
“Don’t you?” said Henry, trying not to show resentment. “I don’t like Gertrude, or Ursula, or Florence, and Harcourt’s the worst of all.”
Miss Harcourt drew off three or four inches and drummed with the tips of her fingers on the table. “I don’t care what you like,” she said humming.