Pamela's father, in one armchair, is making a praiseworthy effort to absorb an article in a review on "The Future of British Finance." In another armchair Pamela's mother is doing some sort of mending. Pamela herself, stretched upon the hearthrug, is reading aloud interesting extracts from a picture-book.
Pamela (in a cheerful sing-song). A for Donkey; B for Dicky.
Her Father. What sort of dicky?
Pamela (examining the illustration more closely). All ugly black, bissect for his blue mouf.
Her Mother (instructively). Not blue; yellow. And it's a beak, not a mouth.
Pamela. I calls it a mouf. He's eating wiv it. (With increasing disfavour) A poor little worm he's eating. Don't like him; he's crool. (She turns the page hurriedly and continues) C for Pussy; D for Mick.
[This is the name of the family mongrel. That the picture represents an absolutely thoroughbred collie matters nothing to Pamela. She spends some time in admiring Mick, then rapidly sweeps over certain illustrations that fail to attract.
Pamela (stopping at the sight of a web-footed fowl, triumphantly). G for Quack-quack.
Her Father. Oh, come, Pamela, that's not a quack-quack; that's a goose. It makes quite a different noise.