“What do you do all alone in the house?” she asked.
“Oh, just nothing; I paint sometimes, and once I went to Kiphissia, and once to a circus.”
“Can you ride?”
Pavlo shook his head.
“Ride? Oh, no!”
“I can,” said Iason, “and she can, too,” nodding his head towards Chryseis. “Father has another horse over on the mainland, besides his own, which can be ridden; and we go with him in turns.”
“Mother says,” put in Andromache, “that when her ship comes in, she will buy horses for all of us, and a real motor boat, too.”
“When I am big,” said Chryseis, whose stories “out of her head,” were generally in request, “I shall write a lot of stories in a book, and sell hundreds and thousands of it, and give all the money to mother, and then she can buy anything, and a new grand piano, too, for father!”
“You cannot write a real book, if you cannot spell properly,” retorted Andromache, whose spelling was her strong point.
“Yes, I can. The printers do all that part.”