What is singular is that this fearful crisis you have gone through becomes in some way sweet to you; you incessantly recur to it, you speak of it, you speak of it and cherish it in your mind; and, like the companions of AEneas, you seek by the recollection of past dangers to increase the present joy.
"Do you remember," you say, "the day when he was so ill? Do you remember his dim eyes, his poor; thin, little arm, and his pale lips? And that morning the doctor went away after clasping our hands?"
It is only Baby who does not remember anything. He only feels an overpowering wish to restore his strength, fill out his cheeks and recover his calves.
"Papa, are we going to have dinner soon, eh, papa?"
"Yes, it is getting dusk, wait a little."
"But, papa, suppose we don't wait?"
"In twenty minutes, you little glutton."
"Twenty, is twenty a great many? If you eat twenty cutlets would it make you ill? But with potatoes, and jam, and soup, and—is it still twenty minutes?"
Then again: "Papa, when there is beef with sauce," he has his mouth full of it, "red tomato sauce."
"Yes, dear, well?"