“Plooie!” she said, and that was all.
“You are crying,” I said.
“I’m not,” she retorted indignantly. “But you ought to be. For your injustice.”
“If we all bewept our injustices,” said I oracularly, “Noah would have to come back and build a new ark for a bigger flood than his.”
“What do you think of him?” said the Bonnie Lassie.
“As a weather-prophet, he was unequaled. As an expert animal-breeder, his selections were at times ill-advised.”
“Don’t be tiresome, Dominie. You know that I’m not interested in Noah.”
“As to our romantic visitant,” I said, “I think that Cyrus the Gaunt would better be watchful. I’ve never known anyone else except Cyrus to produce such an emotional effect upon you.”
“Don’t be school-girlish!” admonished the Bonnie Lassie severely. “Poor old Dominie! He doesn’t know what’s going on under his very nose. Where are your eyes?”
“In Mendel’s top drawer, I suppose.... The question is how are we going to make it up to Plooie?”