"Aunt ... have you never been hysterical?"
"I? Hysterical? No! Sinful, yes: I am sinful still, as we all are! But hysterical, thank God, I have never been! Hysterical, like Uncle Anton, Aunt Thérèse and ... your sister Ottilie, I have never been, never!"
The birds could not but confirm this.
"But you've been in love, Aunt! I hope you'll tell me the story of your romance one day; then I'll make it into a very fine book."
"You've put too much about the family into your sinful books, as it is, for Aunt ever to tell you that, though she had been in love ten times over. For shame, boy! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Write a moral book that's a comfort to read, but don't go digging up sinfulness for the sake of describing it, however fine the words you choose may be."
"So at any rate you think my words fine?"
"I think nothing fine that you write, it's accursed books that you write!... Are you really going now, Elly? Not because I don't admire Lot's books, I hope? No? Then just one more cherry. You should get the recipe from Anna, at Grandmamma's. Well, good-bye, children; and think over what sort of present you'd like from Aunt. You can choose your own, child, you can choose your own. Aunt'll give a present that's the proper thing."
The birds agreed and, as Lot and Elly took their leave, twittered them lustily out of the room.