"What is it saying?" Little Miss Grouch asked.
"'Pretty-pretty,' substantially," translated the Tyro, recovering himself. "Madam," he continued, addressing the mother, "it is evident that your offspring suffers from some defect of vision. I advise you to consult an oculist at once."
"Bitte?" said the mother, a broad-shouldered, deep-chested young madonna.
"He says," explained Little Miss Grouch, "that it is a beautiful baby, with a wonderful intelligence and unusually keen eyes. What is her name?"
"Karl, lady," said the mother.
"Let's adopt Karl," said the corrected one, to the Tyro. "We'll come here every day, and bring him nougats and candied violets—"
"And some pâté de foie gras, and brandied peaches, and dry Martini cocktails," concluded the Tyro. "And then there'll be a burial at sea. What do you think a baby's stomach is, beautiful—er—example of misplaced generosity? Oranges would be more to the purpose."
"Very well, oranges, then. And we'll come twice a day and meet our protégé here."