"Our names are 'Father' and 'Mother'," she said.
Carol wrote the names in the Book. He wrote them very black and literary looking. "Father" at the top of one page. And "Mother" at the top of the other. They looked nice.
"All right then," said my Father. "Fire away!"
I looked at my Father. I looked at my Mother. I didn't know just which one to begin with. Carol kicked me in the shins for encouragement. I decided to begin with my Mother.
"Oh Mother," I said. "If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Mother,—what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world—would you choose to be?"
"Eh? What's that? What?" said my Father. "Well, of all the idiotic foolishness! Of all the—"
"Why no—not at all," said my Mother. "Why—Why I think it's rather interesting! Why—Why—Though I must admit," she laughed out suddenly, "that I never quite thought of things in just that way before!" She looked out the window. She looked in the fire-place. She looked at my Father. She looked at Carol. She looked at me. She began to clap her hands. "I've got it!" she said. "I know what I'd choose! A White Iris! In all the world there's no perfume that can compare with the perfume of a White Iris!—Orris root they call it. Orris—"
"Humph! What's the matter with Tulips?" said my Father.
"Oh but Tulips don't have any smell at all," said my Mother. "Except just the nice earthy smell of Spring winds and Spring rains and Spring sunbeams!—Oh of course they look as though they were going to smell tremendously sweet!" she acknowledged very politely. "But they're just so busy being gay I suppose that—"
"The Tulip Goldfinch," said my Father coldly, "is noted for its fragrance."