"What are 'you'?" retorted Jock.
"I'm thinking what a dear boy you are."
"Fudge."
"It's true. You're the very dearest boy I ever knew." Mousie wore her
middle-aged manner.
"Rot."
"It's no good you saying 'Rot.' You can't help being nice. And you
can't help me loving you. You're just the very darlingest boy that
ever was made. And I know, 'cause I've seen lots and lots of boys.
And not one of them wasn't like you." Mousie's black eyes shone with
a devouring affection. "You dear, sweet pet. And Mum says you're so
pretty."
"I say—do shut up and don't talk such rubbish. Girls are pretty. Men
aren't."
"P'raps when you're a man, you'll get ugly. You can't help being pretty
now. And I do like pretty things."
"I'm not a 'thing.'"
"Well, you know what I mean. Jock, you do like me, don't you? And we're
real friends—really and truly?"
"That's all right—of course."
"And you won't ever like anybody better than me?"
"Oh, bosh! I say—there's a woodpecker."