“Quite right, quite right,” returned the old man, stooping to kiss the little one. “I’ve often thought you’d be the better of a sister, Pina, so, perhaps, a daughter will do as well.”
“Now, then, tea is ready; draw in your chairs, darlings,” said Mrs Rigonda, with a quavering voice. The truth is that all the voices quavered that night, more or less, and it was a matter of uncertainty several times whether the quavering would culminate in laughter or in tears.
“Why do you so often call Pina a queen, dear boy?” asked Mrs Rigonda of her volatile son, Otto.
“Why?” replied the youth, whose excitement did not by any means injure his appetite—to judge from the manner in which he disposed of muffins and toast, sandwiched now and then with wedges of cake—“Why? because she is a queen—at least she was not long ago.”
An incredulous smile playing on the good lady’s little mouth, Pauline was obliged to corroborate Otto’s statement.
“And what were you queen of?” asked her father, who was plainly under the impression that his children were jesting.
“Of Refuge Islands, daddy,” said Pina; “pass the toast, Otto, I think I never was so hungry. Coming home obviously improves one’s appetite.”
“You forget the open boat, Pina.”
“Ah, true,” returned Pauline, “I did for a moment forget that. Yes, we were fearfully hungry that time.”
Of course this led to further inquiry, and to Dominick clearing his throat at last, and saying—“Come, I’ll give you a short outline of our adventures since we left home. It must only be a mere sketch, of course, because it would take days and weeks to give you all the details.”