It isn't fair. Seven times three is--what's father
reading? (_Rises, and takes up the book._) That's French, I know.
Father's always reading French. G.Y.P. Gyp? I wonder what it's
about. (_Puts the book down, sits, yawns, and takes up the pencil._)
Seven times three is--twenty-one. Put down one and carry two. Oh,
but it's pence and shillings. I can't do pence and shillings!
(_Throws down the pencil; it falls off the table._) Horrid old
things! they're always coming wrong. (_She rises lazily, and stoops
to pick up the pencil, then looks round her, stretching her arms and
yawning._) I say, what fun to make a libation to Demeter! I will!
Let's see. I wish I had mother's Greek dress. I must have one of
father's rags. This'll do. (_Drapes herself in a piece of
embroidery, runs up stage, jumps on "throne," and poses before the
mirror._) It's awfully jolly dressing up. But I have no wine. Oh, I
know--I'll take some of father's painting water--though it's rather
black-and-whity. (_Takes up the glass, and approaches the statue._)
Hail, Demeter! I have no wine for you, but here's some water.
(_Makes libation._) I suppose I should pray for something now.
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