“No, no—to send. Freule Louisa has knitted seventy-three little tippets for the school-children—that’s the useful part, Jacóbus. And I make these flowers for their Christmas treat—that’s the ornamental. I must admit,” cried Josine, with a simper, “that I always prefer the ornamental!”
“Where’s your missions?” queried Mopius. “I dare say they’ve got flowers enough out there. Better than those.” He contemptuously pointed a fat finger at a whole cluster of bright-colored balls.
“In Borneo, Jacóbus, among the wild Dajaks, the head-hunters, Jacóbus.” She rested her work in her lap. “So you despise my poor flowers? They will have, I feel confident, their message to those savage hearts.”
“Bosh!” said Jacóbus.
“What, do you not believe in the civilizing influences of refinement?” Josine spoke with sudden asperity. “What are you but a Dajak?”—Jacóbus lifted his big bald head indignantly—“as the President of the Missionary Conference so beautifully said—”
“I? What does he mean? Who talked about me?” burst in Jacóbus, furiously. “If my candidature for Parliament exposes me—”
“You, I, everybody. What are we but Dajaks clothed and in our right minds? I feel confident that when the innocent children hang up my roses on the rude walls of their dwellings, their fathers will take down the hideous heads of victims which now form their only decoration. Jacóbus, could you leave a rosebud lying next to a skull?”
“Josine, you’re a fool,” answered Jacóbus. “I wonder how Roderick can find patience to live with you.”
The Dominé sighed, then coughed hastily, blushing.
“What do the city missionaries say?” persisted Miss Mopius, who was accustomed to having the last word: “‘Beautify the home,’ ‘Put up a picture in your room.’ Mine is the same principle. Jacóbus, after thus rudely abusing me, you might give me a contribution.”