“I see. You don’t want his scalp, but if he insists on sending you a tuft of his hair, you will not return it to him.”
“Well, perhaps that is what is in my mind. Though really I am sincerely anxious to see what will come of so daring, and at the same time, so scientific an experiment.”
“You are a child of science, and to be a child of science is to be the parent of experiments. It was a child of science who modelled toys in dynamite, was it not? Pretty little clay pigs and elephants and poets and millionaires, but one day she thought she would try the experiment of putting a light to the cigar that she had struck into the mouth of the dynamite figure that she was playing with.”
“And what happened?”
“Let me think. Oh, nothing happened because a live man appeared on the scene and quickly dropped all the little toys of the scientific little girl into a bucket of water.”
“And then?”
“Well, then the scientific little girl cried for a while but when she grew up she married the live little man and they lived happily ever after.”
Amber was blushing like a peony before her friend had finished her parable. When Josephine had begun to speak Amber was beginning to fold her serviette, and now she continued folding it as if she were endeavouring to carry out one of the laborious designs of napkin folding given in the Lady’s columns of some weekly paper. Suddenly, while her friend watched her, she pulled the damask square out of its many folds and tossed its crumpled remains on the tablecloth.
“Psha!” she cried, “there’s not a grain of dynamite among all my little boys.”
“Is there not? You just ask your father to give you an analysis of any little boy, and you’ll find that the result will be something like this:”