“Forgive them; the poor things are hungry.”
“Then let them be hungry in another room,” said the irritated scribe. “They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is going to make all our fortunes; but you women,” snapped Triplet the Just, “have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed; every man Jack of them!”
Finding the conversation taking this turn, the brats raised a unanimous howl.
Triplet darted a fierce glance at them. “Hungry, hungry,” cried he; “is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting down here, all gayety” (scratching wildly with his pen) “and hilarity” (scratch) “to write a com—com—” he choked a moment; then in a very different voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: “Where's the youngest—where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry.”
Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gently to his side, and wrote silently. The others were still.
“Father,” said Lucy, aged five, the germ of a woman, “I am not very hungry.”
“And I am not hungry at all,” said bluff Lysimachus, taking his sister's cue; then going upon his own tact he added, “I had a great piece of bread and butter yesterday!”
“Wife, they will drive me mad!” and he dashed at the paper.
The second boy explained to his mother, sotto voce: “Mother, he made us hungry out of his book.”
“It is a beautiful book,” said Lucy. “Is it a cookery book?”