Mrs. Trevise tinkled her bell. “Daphne! I have said to you twice to hand those yams.”
“I done handed ‘em twice, ma’am.”
“Hand them right away, Daphne, and don’t be so forgetful.” It was not easy to disturb the composure of Mrs. Trevise.
The poetess now took up the broken thread. “Had I a son,” she declared, “I would sooner witness him starve than hear him take orders from a menial race.”
“But mightn’t starving be harder for him to experience than for you to witness, y’ know?” asked the Briton.
At this one of the et ceteras made a sort of snuffing noise, and ate his dinner hard.
It was the male honeymooner who next spoke. “Must have been quite a tussle, ma’am.”
“It was an infamous onslaught!” repeated Juno. “Wish I’d seen it!” sighed the honeymooner.
His bride smiled at him beamingly. “You’d have felt right lonesome to be out of it, David.”
“No apology has yet been offered,” continued Juno.