“The consequence is, Pa, that your lovely woman feels a little faint, and would very much like to share your tea.”
The cottage loaf and the pennyworth of milk had been set forth on a sheet of paper on the window-seat. The cherubic pocketknife, with the first bit of the loaf still on its point, lay beside them where it had been hastily thrown down. Bella took the bit off, and put it in her mouth. “My dear child,” said her father, “the idea of your partaking of such lowly fare! But at least you must have your own loaf and your own penn’orth. One moment, my dear. The dairy is just over the way and round the corner.”
Regardless of Bella’s dissuasions he ran out, and quickly returned with the new supply. “My dear child,” he said, as he spread it on another piece of paper before her, “the idea of a splendid—!” and then looked at her figure, and stopped short.
“What’s the matter, Pa?”
“—of a splendid female,” he resumed more slowly, “putting up with such accommodation as the present!—Is that a new dress you have on, my dear?”
“No, Pa, an old one. Don’t you remember it?”
“Why, I thought I remembered it, my dear!”
“You should, for you bought it, Pa.”
“Yes, I thought I bought it, my dear!” said the cherub, giving himself a little shake, as if to rouse his faculties.
“And have you grown so fickle that you don’t like your own taste, Pa dear?”