“And now you keep quiet about Papa!”
He looked at her severely, with his blue eyes suddenly grown hard and a frown on his forehead.
She started and upset her glass. Then she began to weep, softly.
He let her be, for a few minutes. She cried, sobbed, bit her handkerchief. Then he rose, walked round the table, kissed her very gently.
“You have . . . a nice way . . . of talking . . . to your mother!” she said, between her sobs.
He made no reply.
“A pretty tone to use to your mother!” she went on.
He took her by the chin and lifted up her face:
“For shame! To lose your temper like that!” he scolded. “And to grumble! And mope! And squabble! And upset yourself! And kick up a hullabaloo! Do you call that a pleasant way of dining?”
She buried her face on his breast, in his arms. He stroked her hair:
“Come, Mummy, be sensible, now. It’s nothing.”
“Yes, but Papa mustn’t crab Aunt Adolphine.”
“And you mustn’t crab Papa. What did Papa say, after all?”
“That Aunt Adolphine’s boys . . .”
“Were rough. Do you think they’re girls, then?”
“No.”
“Well, then. . . . What else?”
