She shuddered and twisted her fingers violently.
“No! No!” she whispered revoltedly. “I—I hate ratths! I dreamed about one! I had to have the gath lit! Oh, no!”
Frightened at this long speech, she looked obstinately in her lap, though he tried persistently to catch her eye and smile.
Their mothers’ voices rose and fell; they chattered meaninglessly. Ladies talked and talked: they never did anything to speak of, they only talked.
She would not look at him: at his wits’ ends, he played his highest card. If she were of mortal flesh and blood, this would interest her.
“Look here! Do you know what Boston bull pups are? Do you?”
She nodded vigorously.
“Well, you know their tails?”
She nodded uncertainly.
“You know they’re just little stumps?”