"Up there," he answered, pointing into the tree above his head. "And I'm a giraffe in a menagerie and giraffes can't talk, mother."
"Oh, excuse me, little giraffe," she said, smiling.
"Great, big giraffe. Not little giraffe."
Meanwhile there had been a sound of scrambling in the tree and Sally dropped to the ground.
"Did you want me, mother?" she asked.
"I only thought that you have had the care of Charlie for a long time. Don't you want to go up to Margaret Savage's and play with her?" This was, perhaps, the hundredth time that Mrs. Ladue had asked that question.
"No, mother," Sally replied, also for the hundredth time, "I don't. But if you want me to go, I will."
Mrs. Ladue laughed outright at her daughter's directness. "Why?" she asked. "I am really curious to know why you don't like to play with other little girls."
"They are so stupid, mother," Sally answered quietly. "I have a lot better time alone."
"Well, my dear little daughter," began Mrs. Ladue, laughing again; and there she stopped. "I should like, Sally,—I should like it very much, if I could manage to send you to dancing-school this winter."