She (in one long breath). A purple house with a yellow roof and blue curtains and a green door and rose-trees with red roses and hollyhocks and a dear little pussy-cat and a motor-car coming up the drive.
[This is executed in coloured crayons with a rapidity born of hunger and long practice, and passed to the Hanging Committee for inspection.]
She (examining it critically). Ho! that isn't a door.
I. Yes, it is, Priscilla. It's a very nice door.
She. It isn't a door. It hasn't any knocker.
[After all, when is a door not a door? I finish the joinery job and carry on with my bacon.]
She (suddenly). There isn't any sun.
[I sketch in the regulation pattern of circular sun, with eyes, a nose and a smile complete.]
She. That isn't a sun. It hasn't any hair.
I. The sun doesn't have any hair, Priscilla.