fore him in a language he did not understand; Papa and Mamma always talked French before him when they wanted to keep a secret: he had to stand their shutting him out, but he would n't stand it from Moti, who was a year younger than he, and who had no business to put on airs.
"Stop talking that stuff!" he called, with his back still turned to his cousin. Moti paid no sort of heed; she only held the kitten closer and talked on. Bobby felt cross; he was in the mood to pick a quarrel, and he did not try to check it.
"What is that language, anyhow?" he continued, as if to the fat brown puppy on his knee; "it is n't any real language, is it, Fido? It's just fit for duffers like that nigger upstairs!"
Moti's crooning had come to a sudden stop; she had caught a word she hated—a word she never allowed any one to apply to her beloved Dilâl.
