“What’s the good,” said Veronica—not without reason. “You’ll tell them when I’ve gone to bed, and can’t put in a word for myself. Everything is always my fault. I wish sometimes that I was dead.”
“That I were dead,” I corrected her. “The verb ‘to wish,’ implying uncertainty, should always be followed by the conditional mood.”
“You ought,” said Robina, “to be thankful to Providence that you’re not dead.”
“People are sorry when you’re dead,” said Veronica.
“I suppose there’s some bread-and-cheese in the house,” suggested Dick.
“The baker, for some reason or another, has not called this morning,” Robina answered sweetly. “Neither unfortunately has the grocer. Everything there is to eat in the house you see upon the table.”
“Accidents will happen,” I said. “The philosopher—as our friend St. Leonard would tell us—only smiles.”
“I could smile,” said Dick, “if it were his lunch.”
“Cultivate,” I said, “a sense of humour. From a humorous point of view this lunch is rather good.”
“Did you have anything to eat at the St. Leonards’?” he asked.