We are served hare soup, this night; then goose, crisp at the skin, pink at the bones, and with its innards devilled and passed about the table. Mr Hawtrey takes a dainty kidney, Mr Rivers has the heart. I shake my head at the plate he offers.
''I''m afraid you''re not hungry,'' he says quietly, watching my face.
''Don''t you care for goose, Miss Lilly?'' asks Mr Hawtrey. ''Nor does my eldest daughter. She thinks of goslings, and grows tearful.''
''I hope you catch her tears and keep them,'' says Mr Huss. ''I often think I should like to see the tears of a girl made into an ink.''
An ink? Don''t mention it to my daughters, I beg you. That I must hear their complaints, is one thing. Should they once catch the idea of impressing them also upon paper, and making me read them, I assure you, my life would not be worth the living.''
''Tears, for ink?'' says my uncle, a beat behind the others. ''What rubbish is this?''
''Girls'' tears,'' says Mr Huss.
''Quite colourless.''
''I think not. Truly, sir, I think not. I fancy them delicately tinged—perhaps pink, perhaps violet.''_本_作_品_由_思_兔_在_線_閱_讀_網_友_整_理_上_傳_