"That depends," he said, cheerfully. "I didn't mind, bless you. We lived in the country, and they kept their pies in the cellar."
"Yes?" I questioned, eagerly.
"That night when they took stock they were short three pies."
"Oh!" I gasped.
I gazed at him in indecision. He looked back at me quite gravely, save for a lurking twinkle in his eye.
"Did you eat them, granddad?" I asked, confidentially.
He nodded.
"And twenty doughnuts," he said.
I regarded him with deep admiration. What a dreadful bad boy dear granddad had been!
I used often to wish that Madame Tomaso had granddad to deal with. I did not think that she would be so cross, or, at least, she would not show it so openly. She had a trick of frowning until her eyebrows grew together in one thick, black line. She would frown and beat time, and I would chase after her on the piano, with a blur before my eyes, and my heart in my mouth. Sometimes we arrived at a bar together, both out of breath; sometimes she left me far behind, very weak and miserable, with stumbling fingers which refused to hurry. She always beat time with a large black fan, and when the chase proved exhaustive, she would open the fan, and fan herself even in the depth of winter. While she fanned herself she would say things to me, unkind things.