Humphrey was about to reply coffee, when the guardian Beaver winked enormously at him, and shook his head in a manner that was quite perplexing. He had not a notion of what Beaver was trying to convey—there was evidently something to beware of in the question. Then, he had an inspiration.
"What do I take, Beaver?" he asked.
"Oh, tea—undoubtedly tea," Beaver answered hastily.
"Very good." Mrs Wayzgoose turned to go.
"Oh! by the way, Mrs Wayzgoose," Humphrey said. "These ... these bulrushes...."
"Bulrushes!" echoed Mrs Wayzgoose, losing her placidity all of a sudden. There was an icy silence. Beaver seemed to be enjoying it.
"Pray, what of my bulrushes?" demanded the masterful Mrs Wayzgoose.
"Don't you think ... I mean ... wouldn't the room be lighter without them?"
"Without them?" The way she echoed his words, her voice rising in its scale, reminded him of the wolf's replies to Red Riding Hood before making a meal of her. "Are you aware, Mr Quain, that those bulrushes have been there for the last thirty years."