“After what?” I said, catching at the last word, for, to tell the truth, I hadn’t been attending much.

“He toppled over,” Bruno repeated, very gravely, “and if you ever saw a caterpillar topple over, you’d know it’s a serious thing, and not sit g’inning like that—­and I shan’t tell you any more.”

“Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn’t mean to grin.  See, I’m quite grave again now.”

But Bruno only folded his arms and said, “Don’t tell me.  I see a little twinkle in one of your eyes—­just like the moon.”

“Am I like the moon, Bruno?” I asked.

“Your face is large and round like the moon,” Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully.  “It doesn’t shine quite so bright—­but it’s cleaner.”

I couldn’t help smiling at this.  “You know I wash my face, Bruno.  The moon never does that.”

“Oh, doesn’t she though!” cried Bruno; and he leaned forward and added in a solemn whisper, “The moon’s face gets dirtier and dirtier every night, till it’s black all ac’oss.  And then, when it’s dirty all over—­so—­” (he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke) “then she washes it.”

“And then it’s all clean again, isn’t it?”

“Not all in a moment,” said Bruno.  “What a deal of teaching you want!  She washes it little by little—­only she begins at the other edge.”

By this time he was sitting quietly on the mouse, with his arms folded, and the weeding wasn’t getting on a bit.  So I was obliged to say: 

“Work first and pleasure afterward; no more talking till that bed’s finished.”

After that we had a few minutes of silence, while I sorted out the pebbles, and amused myself with watching Bruno’s plan of gardening.  It was quite a new plan to me:  he always measured each bed before he weeded it, as if he was afraid the weeding would make it shrink; and once, when it came out longer than he wished, he set to work to thump the mouse with his tiny fist, crying out, “There now!  It’s all ’ong again!  Why don’t you keep your tail st’aight when I tell you!”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Bruno said in a half-whisper, as we worked:  “I’ll get you an invitation to the king’s dinner-party.  I know one of the head-waiters.”

I couldn’t help laughing at this idea.  “Do the waiters invite the guests?” I asked.

“Oh, not to sit down!” Bruno hastily replied.  “But to help, you know.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  To hand about plates, and so on.”

“Well, but that’s not so nice as sitting at the table, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Bruno said, in a tone as if he rather pitied my ignorance; “but if you’re not even Sir Anything, you can’t expect to be allowed to sit at the table, you know.”

I said, as meekly as I could, that I didn’t expect it, but it was the only way of going to a dinner-party that I really enjoyed.  And Bruno tossed his head, and said, in a rather offended tone, that I might do as I pleased—­there were many he knew that would give their ears to go.