“How funny!” answered the girl.
“No; tragic! But what shall we do now, Celestina?”
“Wash the dishes,” said the child, practically.
“But, my dear, we won’t need them until to-morrow,” expostulated the poet. “Precipitancy is a bad fault. Now, if you had proposed a little music, or a fairy tale––”
“Oh, I could wash them while you played, or told me a story,” suggested the child, eagerly.
“That isn’t such a bad idea,” commented Straws, reflectively.
“Then you will let me?” she asked.
“Go ahead!” said the bard, and he reached for the whistle.