“When Cynthia smiles,” said young Bingo, “the skies are blue; the world takes on a roseate hue: birds in the garden trill and sing, and Joy is king of everything, when Cynthia smiles.” He coughed, changing gears. “When Cynthia frowns⁠—”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I’m reading you my poem. The one I wrote to Cynthia last night. I’ll go on, shall I?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No. I haven’t had my tea.”