"It's not a girl, Mamma. It's a publisher."
Eden broke in: "For God's sake, don't try to explain to her!"
"He shall explain it to me," retorted Grandmother, rapping the table violently with her fork. "Now then, Ernest, speak up! What's this all about?"
Uncle Ernest swallowed a juicy mouthful of rhubarb tart, passed up his cup for more tea, and then said: "You know that Eden has had a number of poems published in the university magazine and—and in other magazines, too. Now an editor—I mean a publisher—is going to bring out a book of them. Do you understand?"
She nodded, the ribbons on her large purple cap shaking. "When's he going to bring it out? When's he coming? If he's coming to tea I want my white cap with the mauve ribbons on. Is he going to bring it out in time for tea?"
"My God!" groaned Eden, under his breath, "listen to her! Why do you try to tell her things? I knew how it would be."
His grandmother glared across at him. She had heard every word. In spite of her great age, she still bore traces of having been a handsome woman. Her fierce eyes still were bright under her shaggy reddish eyebrows. Her nose, defiant of time, looked as though it had been moulded by a sculptor who had taken great pains to make the sweep of the nostrils and arch of the bridge perfect. She was so bent that her eyes stared straight on to the victuals that she loved.
"Don't you dare to curse at me!" She thrust her face toward Eden. "Nicholas, order him to stop cursing at me."
"Stop cursing at her," growled Nicholas, in his rich, deep voice. "More tart, Meggie, please."
