Dick fancies the pink one. Can't have it, because it ain't cricket for kids of three to take precedence of grown-up ladies rising five. Pipe his eyes, does he? Not so, my masters—the yellow one is just as agreeable to Master Richard who will probably play for Middlesex in after life. Timothy thinks that the one with the walnuts on it—if Marge don't mind. Marge don't mind, because there is another one with walnuts on it; but even if it stood alone she'd say she didn't, not that there is any particular credit due to her, it simply being that she's kind of made like that.
Helen Nanna preferred the plain. She had never tasted anything nicer. Lucy Nanna fancied the one with the nougat in it. Daddy didn't care for choc-o-lates. As for Uncle Phil, the munificent donor who had missed his luncheon, although no one knew it besides himself, he took a peppermint warily, but found it quite all right.
But there is the orchestra blaring like a giant refreshed with wine; and in respect of the great Mr. Lover this is no more than sober verity, since, at the instance of a friend and admirer, he had been to interview Hebe with yellow curls. Boomed and blared the cornets to hail the reappearance of the ladies of the ballet, in canary-colored stockings which had no clocks upon 'em. Austere old gentleman, second row of stalls, letting question of taxed costs, etc., dived for opera
