"And sall we catch the fiss and put them on the fire?"
"I suppose we might," I admitted.
"And will they sizzle?"
"Araminta," I said, "the child is hopeless. She has no soul. She will never be a great authoress. The Cup must remain in Oregon, and Priscilla will never tell the world how the wind did go walking in the field, talking to the earth voices, with a preface by Sir Auckland Geddes or Lord Reading. She thinks about nothing but her food."
"Perhaps you had better try again after she's said her prayers," suggested Araminta. "She may be feeling a little more soulful then."
I attended the ceremony, which was performed with the utmost decorum and gravity. When it was ended Priscilla looked up.
"I said them very somnly and in rarver a low voice, didn't I?" she announced, and then went off into gurgles of laughter.
I determined to make one last despairing effort.
"Priscilla," I asked, "which of your books do you like the best?"
"The Gobbly Goblin," she said.