"No."
"They really are the cleverest children."
"Little brutes! I can't think why you come down here every day. The brats aren't in the least grateful."
"But they are. They think me perfection."
"That is the contagion of mental states."
"And they're not fond of you." "That's it again, I suppose." And, as Teacher made no sign of having heard, he went on: "Tea, do you know, is a dreadful bore."
"Of course, but cold tea is worse. And the cakes are so shattered towards the end. Come."
"I've changed my mind. I'm not going. I'm tired of this sort of thing.
Answer me now."
"But the children," faltered Teacher. "I should miss them so."
At this sign of weakening Doctor Ingraham favoured the queer old street with a tableau to which it long had been a stranger. And the cabinet, creeping back to reconnoitre, immediately guessed the worst. Said Morris: