The Lady Acetylene Lampe reclined at ease on the broad window-seat, and gazed dreamily out over the sea which lay hot, sparkling, and brilliantly blue on this August morning.
“My lady,” said her faithful attendant, “whither are thy thoughts straying? With thy lord, perchance, who even now does battle for his king and country in the vasty fields of France? Or——”
“Peace, wench!” the Lady Acetylene interrupted peevishly. “You disturb the—the parabola of my mind.”
The faithful attendant gasped. “The—the what of your mind?” she asked feebly.
“You heard!” her Lady retorted briefly.
“Where did you get it?” the faithful attendant demanded. Then she added with point, “D’you know what it means? Come to that, can you even spell it?”
Before the outraged Lady Acetylene could reply, there came a further interruption. A plaintive voice called up the stairs, “Polly—Pol-lee! Come down, dear! I want you!”
“There’s Mother on the yell,” the attendant observed, with a most undutiful lack of respect. “What does she want now?”
“You’d better go and see,” the Lady responded. “It can’t be to lay the table for tea. I did that before we came up here.”