“What would you like?” inquired Roma.
“Milk, real milk, not milk and water; cake and preserved strawberries.”
“A rather bilious bill of fare, Owlet.”
“Well, then, I won’t eat it; and mind you don’t, either! A person ought not to eat anything to make them sick; any person who does that is not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet authoritatively.
“I think you are quite right, ma’am,” said Roma, smiling.
“What makes you always call me ma’am? I’m not a married woman.”
“Oh, you are not!”
“Why, of course not. I’m not even engaged. You know I’m not. So what makes you call me ma’am?” demanded Owlet.
“Well,” said Roma, slowly and thoughtfully, “in high courtesy, ladies of distinction, married or unmarried, are, or used to be, always addressed as ‘madam’ or ‘ma’am.’ Now I think a young personage like yourself, who is too wise to hear a fairy tale because you say it is not true—though it may be, for aught you know—or to play with a doll because it is not alive—though they may also be in some sense—ought certainly to be honored with the title of madam.”
Owlet gazed at the lady in solemn and sorrowful wonder and disapprobation, and then she gave utterance to her feelings: