Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top
and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good
speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a
stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general.

Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she
declared emphatically.

"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you _never_ remember your
manners?"

"I'm seven to-day," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the
small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven
and--and I'm grown-up."

"And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!"

"So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a
whole, whole week."

"You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and
pretend you're a grand little Queen!"

"I don't _want_ to be a Queen. I want to _walk_.

"Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little
girls," informed Jane.

"I don't _want_ to be a rich little girl,"--voice shrill with