“I do believe,” she giggles, “that you’re really afraid of him!”
“Of course I am. But I shall overthrow him soon, out of my own strength. I’m going to be a Papist.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, it has the true aestheticism of aristocracy.”
She sighs. “You say things so wonderfully. You’re absolutely continental.”
“Dear child! You shall have some tea for that. My very special flower tea. Sit there so I can see you while I fix it. No, don’t read that book. It isn’t for little girls.”
She promptly begins to read it. Bring out the table and connect the little electric range for hot water. The long shadowy room grows darker and outside the automobiles begin to turn on their lights.
“There now,” you say. “Take this, if you like the cup.”
“Oh, isn’t it lovely! I think it’s so nice that your cups are all different. Mother simply insists on having everything in sets, even our books.”
Groan in agony, and you smile at each other, feeling cozy and superior. She eats one piece of cinnamon toast and glances wistfully at another, but decides against it.