"Yes—if you told me stories."
I contemplated her in silence for a moment. After a while she sat down under an oak and clasped her hands.
"I am growing so old," she sighed, "I no longer take pleasure in childish things—Donald's dogs, Walter's humming birds, your butterflies. Jack?"
"What?"
"Sit down on the grass."
"What for?"
"Because I ask you."
I sat down.
Presently she said: "I am as tall as mamma. Why should I study algebra?"
"Because," I answered evasively.