"Rather!" said William with an air of superiority.
"What are you going to have to eat at your party?"
"Oh—everything," said William vaguely.
"Cream blanc-mange?"
"Heaps of it—buckets of it."
The little girl next door clasped her hands.
"Oh, just think of it! Your eating cream blanc-mange and me eating—rice-mould!" (It is impossible to convey in print the intense scorn and hatred which the little girl next door could compress into the two syllables.)
Here an idea struck William.
"What time do you have supper?"
"Seven."