"Something appropriate, you know," encouraged Miss Theodosia, brightly.
"In lovely pink writing on top."
"'She hath starched what she could,'" he offered tentatively.
"Oh, for shame! Something nice and romantic."
"But romance is dead—hold on, I beg pardon! That is not decided yet; I remember. You shall have your poetry, you and Evangeline. Something after this wise:
"'Our most esteemed Stefana,
May rough winds never pain her'
"Do winds 'pain' people? But, to speak modestly, I call that a pretty neat sentiment to turn out extempo like that. 'Stefana'—you can't deny Stefana is a hard word to rhyme with. Now tell me a harder one!"
"Evangeline—Theodosia," she murmured. Her eyes dwelt lovingly on the little white cake. He should not make fun of it!
"I'll decorate it myself," she said, "I'll have a little pink heart on it—two little pink hearts."
"With but a single thought. Make them with but a single thought—beat them as one. There! I'm perfectly sober and sane now. It's a fine little cake, and I'm not worthy to write poetry for it. Longfellow—Shakespeare—Whitcomb Riley—we'll canvass them. Don't think I'm not respectful to Stefana's birthday."
"I don't know what you call respect!" she retorted. But she knew the next day. She found out what he called respect. The knowledge came, as so much that was worth while came, through Evangeline, Elly Precious in its wake. They came running this time. Elly Precious' small body rolled and lurched with their hurry and the agitation of Evangeline's soul.