He looked at her amusedly again, and then at the kettle boiling on the little spirit-stove.
"I say, old lady, theories are all very nice—after tea," he suggested.
"Oh, is it tea time?" she said, with a little sigh. Then, brightening, she hummed a little tune all wrong as she cut bread and butter, laid a little spray of bush roses round his plate and went down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. King's advice about what treatment she could give to eggs to make them nicer than usual for him.
At the door she turned back.
"You know, Louis—they've such lovely, shining wings—all beautiful colours—"
"What?" he said. He had already dismissed the "silly little girl's" arguments from his mind.
"I'm thinking about people and bluebottles! Lovely iridescent wings all sploshed down in sticky stuff. And swift legs—it seems such a pity to cripple them so that they can't fly or run."
"I do so want my tea," he said, pretending to groan.
She ran down the stairs with a laugh.
That day she discovered the possibilities of the roof.