They were both so stricken with horror at my passion that I did not—but I swear that that is the only reason.
To comfort me the frail one said: “We—we’re very fond of it, you know. I don’t suppose your teapot has a story?”
Do you observe that she unconsciously said your teapot?
I at once fancied the hideous history of the hideous mechanism. A hissing, grinding factory!
“No,” I answered, adopting her phrase of proprietorship, “my teapot has no story.”
But then I added, “Has yours?”
Some guilty exchange passed between the two old ladies in the occult way which needs no speech. And the mystery of the bit of clay was deepened. Most things (save the patent teapot) are not new. But I am sure that this question had never before been asked them.
“Yes,” said the frail one, with the assent of the other.
“I guess you may tell him,” said the blind one, huskily, looking down.
The frail one looked almost aghast.