“Then I’ll cry, and go down on my knees to him, and beg him not to take away my own dear Lootie.”
The nurse was comforted at hearing this, and said no more. They went on, walking pretty fast, but taking care not to run a step.
“I want to talk to you,” said Irene to the little miner; “but it’s so awkward! I don’t know your name.”
“My name’s Curdie, little princess.”
“What a funny name! Curdie! What more?”
“Curdie Peterson. What’s your name, please?”
“Irene.”
“What more?”
“I don’t know what more. What more is my name, Lootie?”
“Princesses haven’t got more than one name. They don’t want it.”
“Oh, then, Curdie, you must call me just Irene and no more.”
“No, indeed,” said the nurse indignantly. “He shall do no such thing.”
“What shall he call me, then, Lootie?”
“Your Royal Highness.”
“My Royal Highness! What’s that? No, no, Lootie. I won’t be called names. I don’t like them. You told me once yourself it’s only rude children that call names; and I’m sure Curdie wouldn’t be rude. Curdie, my name’s Irene.”