“About fifty years older,” answered Mrs. Schofield, turning upon him a stare of perplexity.  “Don’t cut into the leather with your new knife, dear; the livery man might ask us to pay if——­No.  I wouldn’t scrape the paint off, either—­nor whittle your shoe with it.  Couldn’t you put it up until we get home?”

“We goin’ straight home?”

“No.  We’re going to stop at Mrs. Gelbraith’s and ask a strange little girl to come to your party, this afternoon.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Fanchon.  She’s Mrs. Gelbraith’s little niece.”

“What makes her so queer?”

“I didn’t say she’s queer.”

“You said——­”

“No; I mean that she is a stranger.  She lives in New York and has come to visit here.”

“What’s she live in New York for?”

“Because her parents live there.  You must be very nice to her, Penrod; she has been very carefully brought up.  Besides, she doesn’t know the children here, and you must help to keep her from feeling lonely at your party.”

“Yes’m.”

When they reached Mrs. Gelbraith’s, Penrod sat patiently humped upon a gilt chair during the lengthy exchange of greetings between his mother. and Mrs. Gelbraith.  That is one of the things a boy must learn to bear:  when his mother meets a compeer there is always a long and dreary wait for him, while the two appear to be using strange symbols of speech, talking for the greater part, it seems to him, simultaneously, and employing a wholly incomprehensible system of emphasis at other times not in vogue.  Penrod twisted his legs, his cap and his nose.

“Here she is!” Mrs. Gelbraith cried, unexpectedly, and a dark-haired, demure person entered the room wearing a look of gracious social expectancy.  In years she was eleven, in manner about sixty-five, and evidently had lived much at court.  She performed a curtsey in acknowledgment of Mrs. Schofield’s greeting, and bestowed her hand upon Penrod, who had entertained no hope of such an honour, showed his surprise that it should come to him, and was plainly unable to decide what to do about it.

“Fanchon, dear,” said Mrs. Gelbraith, “take Penrod out in the yard for a while, and play.”

“Let go the little girl’s hand, Penrod,” Mrs. Schofield laughed, as the children turned toward the door.

Penrod hastily dropped the small hand, and exclaiming, with simple honesty, “Why, I don’t want it!” followed Fanchon out into the sunshiny yard, where they came to a halt and surveyed each other.

Penrod stared awkwardly at Fanchon, no other occupation suggesting itself to him, while Fanchon, with the utmost coolness, made a very thorough visual examination of Penrod, favouring him with an estimating scrutiny which lasted until he literally wiggled.  Finally, she spoke.

“Where do you buy your ties?” she asked.

“What?”

“Where do you buy your neckties?  Papa gets his at Skoone’s.  You ought to get yours there.  I’m sure the one you’re wearing isn’t from Skoone’s.”