“Oh, no!” with a deepening blush. “You will write,” she nodded coaxingly.
The boy gave a rather backward assent. He did not feel sure that Mr. Selden would not want his bird again, and what could he say to ward off such a catastrophe? Before he had recovered from the realization that he had actually agreed to write the letter, a maid entered with a tray, and Daphne came dancing after.
“I stayed to see Johanna fill the tarts,” she chuckled. “They are red raspberry jam ones! You will like them!” she told Blue, over her shoulder.
That was a luncheon like none the boy had ever seen: tiny buttered rolls; slips of cold chicken; raspberry tarts; and coffee in beautiful china cups, with whipped cream floating on top.
“What may Caruso eat?” asked Daphne, pausing for Blue’s answer before offering the bird any of the dainties.
“Just a mite of roll,” he said.
“No, a tart!” she begged.
The lad shook his head smilingly.
“You might run and fetch a lettuce leaf,” suggested her sister. “That will not hurt him.”
The child was off and back again in a trice, and they all laughed to see the bird catch bit after bit from her fingers. Even the tarts had no further interest for Daphne until the last piece of green was in Caruso’s bill.