"Now, we've got two hours to kill. What do you want to do?" he inquired.

"I want to go on top the 'bus."

"It's too hot."

"Well, that's what I want to do."

Wally sighed.

"All right, come along," he said, aware of what her determination
usually accomplished.

He thought of Max, and felt himself absolutely martyred. This was her
job. She was a slacker to put it off on him. In his irritation he
glanced down at the cause of it, and found her looking at him.

"Wally, does the hot make you sick?"

"Why?"

"We could go to the Zoo in a taxi."

"Thank you, I should prefer that."

"All right"--cheerfully.

"You're a good old thing!" he remarked, as he called a second coach.

* * * * *

They inspected the animals, and endured the awful smells thereof, with
great satisfaction on the part of Isabelle and much self-restraint on
the part of her parent.

"Couldn't we have a gorilla out at The Beeches, Wally?" she inquired.

"Lord, no! What do you want of a beast like that?"

"I like them. They're so . . . different!" she said, hesitating over the
adjective.

Wally burst out laughing.

"Don't you think they are?" she inquired politely.

"Yes, all of that."

On the way back to the agency, he counselled her on her behaviour.

"Now, don't be fresh, Isabelle, and say, 'I don't like the wart on your
nose,' or that kind of thing."

"Do I have to get one with a wart on her nose?" she asked seriously.

"No, no. I mean--don't say the wrong thing all the time."

"But I don't know what is the wrong thing, Wally," she assured him.

"I should say you didn't! You just let me do the talking. If you like
the one I'm interviewing, just nod; if you don't, why shake your head.
Get me?"

"Like this?"--with neck-breaking violence of the head.

"No--no. Gently, like this."

They seated themselves in the agency room, and the governesses were
presented. The usual drab, rather faded women, used to living in the
background. Some of them resented Isabelle's presence, some of them
spoke to her as to a baby. After about three sentences had been spoken,
her head would move violently, and Wally got rid of the candidate.

"Lord! they're a sad lot," he exclaimed.

"What makes them sad?" she inquired.

"Kids like you."

They finished the first consignment without any luck, and went to the
second place. It was simply a repetition. Isabelle seemed to sense their
adhesion to type, fo