“Let us have the Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said Ethelwyn.
“You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you’re quite right. It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we lack.”
“There is one reason,” said Wynnie with a roguish look, “why I like that play.”
“I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie.”
“But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn’t it, papa?”
“I’m not sure of that. But what is your reason?”
“That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. They are true throughout.”
“I might choose to say that was because they were not tried.”
“And I might venture to answer that Shakspere—being true to nature always, as you say, papa—knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a woman’s feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower.”
“Capital, Wynnie!” said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our approbation.