“No; I say Rosa, you’re always ragging. What ought I not to do? You might tell a fellow.”
“I’ve warned you, Hi: not to fall in love with my cousin.”
“Fall in love: rats,” he said.
“That’s the spirit,” she said. “Rats.”
Someone in the hall outside was moving to and fro, arranging flowers in the bowls on the tables. At first, Hi thought that this was Donna Emilia; then the unseen woman began to sing in a low voice, as though thinking of something else. It was not Donna Emilia. Hi could not make out the words, but thought the voice and tune pretty.
“What’s the song, Rosa?” he asked.
“That? An old lullaby. It’s about roses going to bed because it’s late.”
“It’s pretty.”
“My dear boy, you’re cutting that thing so that it’ll have neither cut nor hang.”
“Oh, dash it, so I am.”