The girl has probably learned not to break into the
conversation of her elders with an axe," he speculated, "nor to walk
ahead of Grandmother when she comes into a room. Any girl learns those
things--in time--unless she is an idiot. But there are other things to
learn. You can't make fine china out of coarse clay."
"But you can make very, very beautiful pottery," cried Hepatica. "And
the lump of clay that came into contact with Grandmother's wheel----"
She paused. Metaphors are sometimes difficult things to handle. The
Philosopher, musing, did not notice that she had not finished.
"It's rather curious that I should be asked," he said. "I never saw
either of them but once."
"You made a great conquest on that one occasion, though," said the
Skeptic.
"Nonsense!" The Philosopher coloured like a boy. "That girl----"
"Not that girl," explained the Skeptic. "The Old Lady. She has never
ceased to ask after you whenever we have seen her or heard from her. As
I remember, you presented her with a bunch of garden flowers as big as
your head, and looked at her as if she were eighteen and the beauty she
undoubtedly once was.
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