"Ridiculous, child! They would not be appreciated there. What do our canine friends care for carnations?" He smiled with satisfaction at the phrase.
In his mind he saw a neat letter to the papers—the sort of thing he dictated to Woodville, and never sent—about "Flowers and Our Four-footed Favourites," signed "Paterfamilias." He was proud of his well-turned phrases, but, though pompous, he was not persistent, and when his secretary had once heard these rigmaroles, and their author had seen them in type—I mean typewriting—Sir James felt for the moment satisfied, and said he had "done a good morning's work."
"I won't have them sent to any hospital, Sylvia. I forbid it."
"Very well, papa. But they're mine; surely I can do what I like with them?" she pouted.
"Since they are, as you justly say, my dear, your own personal property, it seems to me only proper that you should write and acknowledge them, thanking the thoughtful sender in an appropriate note."
"But, papa, the thoughtful sender is so fearfully floral! I should have to spend nearly all my time writing appropriate notes."
"I don't understand your tone, Sylvia. However, we may let that pass." He opened the newspaper with much rustling and crackling, and said, as if to end the discussion—
"If you receive another basket, or other offering of the same description, from our good friend Ridokanaki, you will write and thank him, will you not?"
"I will not," she answered amiably, as if assenting.
"You will not?"