"Would you like to see my shells?" she asked suddenly.
I woke up and looked at her. She was about seven years old, pretty, dark, and very much at ease.
"I should love it," I said.
She produced a large paper bag from somewhere, and poured the contents in front of me.
"I've got two hundred and fifty-eight," she announced.
"So I see," I said. I wasn't going to count them."
"I think they're very pretty. I'll give you one if you like. Which one will you choose?"
I sat up and examined them carefully. Seeing how short a time we had known each other, I didn't feel that I could take one of the good ones. After a little thought I chose quite a plain one, which had belonged to a winkle some weeks ago.
"Thank you very much," I said.
"I don't think you choose shells at all well," she said scornfully.
"That's one of the ugly ones."