“I’m going to call it Gertrude,” she said. “And I shall undress it every night and put it to bed, and wake it up in the morning and dress it, and put it to bed at night, and wake it up next morning and dress it⁠—”

“I say, old thing,” I said, “I don’t want to hurry you and all that, but you couldn’t condense it a bit, could you? I’m rather anxious to see the finish of this race. The Wooster fortunes are by way of hanging on it.”

“I’m going to run in a race soon,” she said, shelving the doll for the nonce and descending to ordinary chitchat.

“Yes?” I said. Distrait, if you know what I mean, and trying to peer through the chinks in the crowd. “What race is that?”

“Egg ’n Spoon.”

“No, really? Are you Sarah Mills?”

“Na-ow!” Registering scorn. “I’m Prudence Baxter.”