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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
116
"How's
your
husband?"
June
asked
me
last
time,
in
the
defiant
tones
she
seems
to
think
proper
at
a
ball.
"Very
well,
thank
you."
"Oh,
that
is
nice."
"Mine
isn't
vely
well,"
remarked
April,
cheerfully.
"Indeed?"
"No,
he
has
got
some
tummy-aches."
"Dear
me!"
"He
was
coming
else,
and
had
such
fine
twowsers
to
wear--pink
ones
with
wibbons."
After
a
little
more
graceful
conversation
of
this
kind
the
ball
begins,
and
at
the
end
of
an
hour's
dancing,
supper,
consisting
of
radishes
and
lemonade,
is
served
on
footstools;
and
when
they
have
cleared
it
up
even
to
the
leaves
and
stalks
of
the
radishes,
they
rise
with
much
dignity,
express
in
proper
terms
their
sense
of
gratitude
for
the
entertainment,
curtsey,
and
depart
to
bed,
where
they
spend
a
night
of
horror,
the
prey
of
the
awful
dreams
naturally
resulting
from
so
unusual
a
combination
as
radishes
and
babies.
That
is
why
my
balls
are
rare
festivals--the
babies
will
insist
on
having
radishes
for
the
supper,
and
I,
as
a
decent
parent
with
a
proper
sense
of
my
responsibilities,
am
forced
accordingly
to
restrict
my
invitations
to
two,
at
the
most
three,
in
a
year.
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