"Williams, bring Miss Bleema some hot coffee."
"I'm finished, mother—please!"
"I was telling Mr. Feist a while ago, Bleema, about your ambition to be a writer, not for money, but just for the pleasure in it. What is it you call such writing in your French, honey? Dilytanty?"
"Please, mamma, Mr. Feist isn't interested."
"Indeed I am, Miss Bleema! More interested than in anything I know of."
"She's mad at her papa, Feist, and when my little girl gets mad at her papa there's nothing for him to do but apologize with a big kiss."
Suddenly Miss Pelz burst into tears, a hot cascade of them that flowed down over her prettiness.
"Why, Bleema!"
"Now, now, papa's girl—"
The grandmother made a quick gesture of uplifted hands, leaning over toward her, and Miss Pelz hiding her face against that haven of shrunken old bosom.