“Perhaps I do. I wonder,” said Quixtus. He clutched eagerly at a straw. “But what’s the use of my telling it to you if you know it already?”
She ran and picked up the sprawling cat and calmly established herself on his knees. Bimbo, neglected, uttered a whining growl, and curling himself up with his chin by his tail, dropped into a morose slumber.
“Tell it to Pinkie. She’s stupid and always forgets the stories. Now begin.”
Quixtus hummed and ha’d and at last plunged desperately. “There was once a wolf who ate up Red Riding-Hood’s grandmother.”
“That’s not it,” cried Sheila. “There was once a sweet little girl who lived with her grandmother. That’s the proper way.”
Quixtus floundered. Let any one who has never told a tale to a child and has never heard of Red Riding-Hood for at least five-and-thirty years, try to recount her tragical history. Quixtus had to tell it to an expert in the legend, a fearsome undertaking. At last, with her aid he stumbled through. Pinkie, staring at him through her bead eyes, evidently couldn’t make head or tail of it. Being punched in the midriff by her young protectress, she emitted a wheezy squeak.
“Pinkie says ‘thank you,’ ” Sheila remarked politely.
“And what do you say?” asked the blundering elder.
Now what had been good enough to merit Pinkie’s thanks had not been good enough to merit hers. Besides, such as it was, she had told half the story. With delicate diplomacy she had handled a difficult situation. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Good God!” murmured Quixtus in terror. “She is going to cry. What on earth can I do?”