“That is the cemetery,” said Minkie, pointing to a low tree-lined wall in the distance. “Some day, if you like, I shall take you there, and show you his mother’s grave.”
“Thanks, but I am not fond of cemeteries, as a rule.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to be cremated?”
“I haven’t considered the matter.”
“But you ought to. You are quite old, nearly forty, and I saw in a pill advertisement the other day that forty is a dangerous age if your liver is out of order.”
“Here, young lady, not quite so fast, please. How do you know I am forty, and why do you think I have a diseased liver?”
“It said so in the paper.”
“The deuce it did.”
“Yes; in one of those little spicy bits, telling you all about people, you know. It said: ‘Mr. Montague Schwartz is one of the Chosen People.’ You are Mr. Montague Schwartz, aren’t you?”
“Go on, do.”