“Oh,” he said, “I’ll go on home—I’d rather.”
“No,” she replied, “you can’t because we are all having tea together: I had some fruits put up, because I know you don’t trifle with tea—and your father’s coming.”
“But,” he replied pettishly, “I can’t have my tea with all those folks—I don’t want to—look at me!”
He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.
She winced and said:
“It won’t matter—you’ll give the realistic touch.”
He laughed ironically.
“No—you must come,” she insisted.
“I’ll have a drink then, if you’ll let me,” he said, yielding.
She got up quickly, blushing, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.