Alice was in no mood for histrionics.
"You won't want them; where we are going there will be all kinds of other things to play with," she informed her child.
"Who will take care of my childwens," said Sara, "when I am away?"
"Well, Sara," said Alice, "it's very bad for children to travel."
"Oh, no, it isn't; oh, no, it isn't," said Sara. "They need a change. Sea air is good for childwens; you said so; you told Father so."
"Sea air is good for my children, but not for your children," said Alice firmly. "Their eyes drop out and their hair comes off."
"I've got lots without hair, and painted-in eyes," Sara said. "Evelyn Dearie isn't painted. I want my childwens. You don't go off without your childwens, Mother."
"No," said Alice to herself gloomily, "but I wish I did. It is not my fault," she reflected in this moment of bitterness. "If I do not, it is because of my conscience."
"I won't leave them at home!" cried Sara. "Mices will eat them."
"Nonsense, Sara!" responded Alice tartly. "You can pack one doll in the trunk, and one small one you can carry in the train. That's all. Now, decide at once."
From the outside this would seem to be a simple matter, but in childhood you never know when your words may prove to be as harmful as the sowing of dragons' teeth. At this word Sara began to get out her dolls and set them up in rows around the wall, where they, together with Sara, were extraordinarily in the way. They also seemed to have multiplied like rabbits; it had not occurred to Alice that Sara owned so many dolls.
