"I can't possibly carry complicated calculations in my head from week to week," I said; "you should have made a note of it at the time. It's Veronica's birthday on Wednesday, and what do you think she wants?"
But Kathleen was enthralled by the greengrocer's book. "Have we really had eight cabbages this week?" she said. "We must, I suppose. Greengrocers are generally honest; they live so near to nature. Well, now," she shut up her books, "what were you saying, dear?"
I sighed, cleared my throat and began again. "It's Veronica's birthday on Wednesday, and what do you think she wants? She wants," I said dramatically, "a 'frush' from the bird-shop in the village. The ones that hang in cages outside the door."
"Well," said Kathleen, "why not?"
"Why not?" I became more than serious. "A daughter of ours has demanded for a plaything a caged bird. Psychologically it is an important occasion. Now or never must she learn to look upon a caged bird with horror. What I am thinking of is the psychological effect upon the child's character. The psychological—"
"You needn't worry about Veronica's psychology," said Kathleen. "Veronica's psychology is in the right place."
"You misunderstand the meaning of the word," I said loftily. "However, if you wish to wash your hands of Veronica's training, if you refuse to cope with your own child, I must take it upon myself."
"Do," said Kathleen sweetly; "I'll listen."
It was Veronica's birthday. We were outside the bird-shop. The thrushes in cages hung around the door.