“I should like it of all things, if it can be managed.”
“Oh, I will manage it somehow, for I must go and see that dear Katie. I do feel so ashamed of myself when I think of all the good she is doing, and I do nothing but put flowers about, and play the piano. Isn't she an angel, now?”
“Of course she is.”
“Yes, but I won't have that sort of matter-of-course acquiescence. Now—do you really mean that Katie is as good as an angel?”
“As seriously as if I saw the wings growing out of her shoulders, and dew drops hanging on them.”
“You deserve to have some thing not at all like wings growing out of your head. How is it that you never see when I don't want you to talk your nonsense?”
“How am I to talk sense about angels? I don't know anything about them.”
“You know what I mean perfectly. I say that dear Katie is an angel, and I mean that I don't know anything in her—no not one single thing—which I should like to have changed. If the angels are all as good as she”—
“If! why I shall begin to doubt your orthodoxy.”
“You don't know what I was going to say.”