Mrs. Kontorompa, who knew very well that she did not look sweet in anything in the world, smiled.
“You do say such nice things, Katya dear.”
“Oh, the coffee’s here already. Do pour me out a glass, mamma. I’m terribly thirsty—and hungry, too.”
She ate bread, butter and honey, and smiled at two kissing butterflies.
“How nice to be a butterfly!” she said, munching.
“Yes, but why?”
“Well, a butterfly does just what it wants. It does not wait to be introduced. It is so wonderfully unmoral.”
Her mother surveyed her for a moment.
“Do you know, Katya, you sometimes talk just like some of the women in those French novels you brought home with you from Brussels.”
“Do I? Well, I feel like them. I’m going for a bathe this morning, mamma.”