“The other girls said,” she began, tugging at the button, “that you was a ‘cirkiss’”—­another tug—­“‘a nigger minstrel’”—­and a third tug—­“’a agent with samples’—­but that showed all they knew!”

“Ah,” said the colonel with exaggerated blandness, “and—­er—­what did you—­er—­say?”

The child smiled.  “I said you was a Stuffed Donkey—­but that was before I knew you.  I was a little skeert too; but now”—­she succeeded in buttoning the coat and making the colonel quite apoplectic,—­“Now I ain’t frightened one bit—­no, not one tiny bit!  But,” she added, after a pause, unbuttoning the coat again and smoothing down the lapels between her fingers, “you’re to keep on frightening the old cats—­mind!  Never mind about the girls.  I’ll tell them.”

The colonel would have given worlds to be able to struggle up into an upright position with suitable oral expression.  Not that his vanity was at all wounded by these irresponsible epithets, which only excited an amused wonder, but he was conscious of an embarrassed pleasure in the child’s caressing familiarity, and her perfect trustfulness in him touched his extravagant chivalry.  He ought to protect her, and yet correct her.  In the consciousness of these duties he laid his white hand upon her head.  Alas! she lifted her arm and instantly transferred his hand and part of his arm around her neck and shoulders, and comfortably snuggled against him.  The colonel gasped.  Nevertheless, something must be said, and he began, albeit somewhat crippled in delivery:—­

“The—­er—­use of elegant and precise language by—­er—­young ladies cannot be too sedulously cultivated”—­

But here the child laughed, and snuggling still closer, gurgled:  “That’s right!  Give it to her when she comes down!  That’s the style!” and the colonel stopped, discomfited.  Nevertheless, there was a certain wholesome glow in the contact of this nestling little figure.

Presently he resumed tentativery:  “I have—­er—­brought you a few dainties.”

“Yes,” said Pansy, “I see; but they’re from the wrong shop, you dear old silly!  They’re from Tomkins’s, and we girls just abominate his things.  You oughter have gone to Emmons’s.  Never mind.  I’ll show you when we go out.  We’re going out, aren’t we?” she said suddenly, lifting her head anxiously.  “You know it’s allowed, and it’s rights ’to parents and guardians’!”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the colonel.  He knew he would feel a little less constrained in the open air.

“Then we’ll go now,” said Pansy, jumping up.  “I’ll just run upstairs and put on my things.  I’ll say it’s ‘orders’ from you.  And I’ll wear my new frock—­it’s longer.” (The colonel was slightly relieved at this; it had seemed to him, as a guardian, that there was perhaps an abnormal display of Pansy’s black stockings.) “You wait; I won’t be long.”