SOPHY OF KRAVONIA
"You don't think it's nice to be a cook, either?" she asked.
"Oh yes, splendid! The cook's a sort of queen," said he.
"The cook a sort of queen? Is she?" Sophy's eyes were profoundly thoughtful.
"And I should be very proud to kiss a queen—a sort of queen. Because I shall be only a poor sawbones."
"Sawbones?"
"A surgeon—a doctor, you know with a red lamp, like Dr. Seaton at Brentwood."
She looked at him for a moment. "Are you really going away?" she asked, abruptly.
"Yes, for a bit—to-morrow."
Sophy's manner expanded into a calm graciousness. "I'm very sorry," she said.
"Thank you."
"You amuse me."
"The deuce I do!" laughed Basil Williamson.
She raised her eyes slowly to his. "You'll be friends, anyhow, won't you?"
"To cook or queen," he said—and heartiness shone through his raillery.
Sophy nodded her head gravely, sealing the bargain. A bargain it was.
"Now I must go and have tea, and then say my catechism," said she.
The young fellow—his thoughts were sad—wanted the child to linger.
"Learning your catechism? Where have you got to?"
"I've got to say my 'Duty towards my Neighbor' to Mrs. James after tea."
"Your 'Duty towards your Neighbor'—that's rather difficult, isn't it?"
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