“Oh, sorry, Gran’papa,” said Laura meekly and was instantly aware that it was the wrong one.
“I assure you, my dear, that you are mistaken in thinking rudeness a sauce to good wit,” said Gran’papa, always at his most Shakespearean when offended.
Laura roused herself. She knew how to appease him.
“Why, is it not a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted by these ‘Pardon me’s’?” she countered, twinkling.
He gave his gruff chuckle. His granddaughter did not wear her hair in smooth bands as a gentlewoman should: used slang (mild enough, oh, Gran’papa Valentine!) and slurred her speech in the detestable modern fashion: had, in short, innumerable faults of her own; but she could always be trusted to cap a quotation. He held out an olive branch.
“The weather seems likely to hold. You should have a pleasant picnic. You are taking——?”
“Oh, eggs and salad and bread-and-cheese, and Justin’s bringing peaches and anything else going. We shall have a gorgeous spread.”
“A feast,” agreed Gran’papa, too graciously, “of oriental magnificence.”
“Oh, you know what I mean!” Laura laughed. “Will you excuse me, Gran’papa? There’s such a lot to see still and Justin hates waiting—dislikes, I mean: sorry!”
Gran’papa hid his feelings in his newspaper.