"I hate work!" said Devery, stretching up her thin arms, while her purple smock whipped about her lean, straight torso in classic folds.
"What would you like to do?" asked Angelica.
"Just live—like cats, without any aim. I’d never accomplish anything. Just as soon as you do accomplish anything, you see that it wasn’t worth doing. What is?"
"Devery, you’re morbid and hypocritical," said Sillon. "You don’t mean that. Besides, cats don’t feel like that, my child. When they’ve caught a mouse, they feel that it was very much worth doing."
"Oh, well, so do I! I think it’s worth while to catch my meals, somehow. Angelica, what an industrious soul you are! I don’t believe you’d enjoy being idle."
"I’d be miserable if I didn’t think I was getting forward."
"How did we get such a paragon?" asked Sillon.
"Suppose we go out to dinner?" suggested Devery suddenly. "Early, and then to the movies?"
"I’ll telephone to mother first," said Angelica, "to see if it will be all right if I don’t go home."
A punctilious and Eddie-like form, and nothing more.