Mrs. F.—A perfect icon of his pater; restless as a little emu.
Mrs. W.—He took a canoe out on the tarn and paddled over to the ait. There he stepped into a fen and got his feet roric.
Mrs. F.—Boys have such an elan for the eau.
Mrs. W.—Why can’t they play on the muirs and in the wald nearby? I gave him a drachm of ricin and thank goodness he was better this morn.
Mrs. F.—I’m so glad. This torrid weather is very trying. One’s vitality reaches its nadir in this heat, and to add to the discomfort I have an incompetent serf to contend with.
Mrs. W.—Oh, this esne problem. The last one I had was such a schelm I had to let her go. Would you drink a nice cold beaker of negus? I’m so sere.
Mrs. F.—Don’t trouble yourself, my dear.
Mrs. W.—Not at all. It’s Henry’s favorite quaff and he insists upon it being on the ice at all times. He gets quite roiled if it isn’t.
Mrs. F.—Well, we must humor our sires. I hate to hear them gnar.
(They are interrupted by piercing juvenile shrieks growing rapidly louder and nearer. Junior and Dicky, ages six [[8]]and seven, burst into view around the corner of the house. They take final kicks at each other before smothering their sobs in the laps of their respective mothers.)