"Where is the poor boy?" he asks again.
"Yes, where is he?" I ask. "What's his name?"
Aunt Anna gives me a furious glance.
"What's his name, Aunt Anna?" asks my little boy. "Where does he live? He can have my beer-soup with pleasure."
"Mine too," I say, resolutely, and I push my plate from me.
My little boy never takes his great eyes off Aunt Anna's face. Meanwhile, she has recovered herself:
"There are many poor boys who would thank God if they could get such delicious beer-soup," she says. "Very many. Everywhere."
"Yes, but tell us of one, Auntie," I say.
My little boy has slipped down from his chair. He stands with his chin just above the table and both his hands round his plate, ready to march off with the beer-soup to the poor boy, if only he can get his address.
But Aunt Anna does not allow herself to be played with: