"I've brought such a lot of pretty things for you."
Then he grew animated. "Have you also brought something for Cilia? She could find use for a workbasket with all kinds of things in it very well: she has only an old one she used at school, you know. Oh, she can tell such splendid stories--ugh, that make you shiver. And how she can sing. Let her sing this one for you:
"A smart pretty maiden, quite a young sprig,
A farmer did choose for his bride;
Her favours, however, to a soldier man jig,
And sly to her old man she cried--
"It's perfectly ripping, I can tell you."
And he began to hum the continuation with a laugh:
"He had much better toss the hay, hooray,
The hay, hooray----"
"Hush!" She put her hand to his mouth. "That's not at all a nice song--it's a horrid one. You mustn't sing that any more."
"But why not?" He gazed at her with eyes round with amazement.
"Because I don't wish it," she said curtly. She was indignant: she would give the girl a bit of her mind to-morrow, yes, to-morrow.
Her cheeks were no longer hot. A cold wind blew through the veranda, which pierced her to the very heart. When her husband called out: "Why, Käte, what have you been doing with yourself? Do take off your things first," she quickly answered his call.