I was accumulating evidence on the subject
of my puzzling riddle, but I feared my last batch might prove expensive.
I saw the mistake my tongue had led me into. Many a man has wrecked his
fortune by airing his wit.
When Yolanda returned, she sat at a little distance from us, pouting
beautifully. The cause of her unmistakable ill-humor, of course, was
known only to me, and was a source of wonder to Max. At the end of five
minutes, during which there had been little conversation, Max, who was
amused at Yolanda's pouting, turned to her, and said:--
"The Fates owe me a few smiles as compensation for their frowns during
the last three weeks. Won't you help them to pay me, Fraeulein?"
Her face had been averted, but when Max spoke she turned slowly and gave
him the smile he desired as if to say, "I am not pouting at you."
Her act was so childlike and her face so childishly beautiful that we
all smiled with amusement and pleasure. Yolanda saw the smiles and
turned on us, pouting though almost ready to laugh. She rose from her
chair, stamped her foot, stood irresolutely for a moment, and then
breaking into a laugh, drew her chair to our little circle--next to
Max--and sat down.
"Tante, is supper never to be served?" she asked. "I am impatient to see
the live wren pie."
"Live wren pie?" asked Max, incredulously.
"Yes. Have you never seen one?" asked Yolanda.
"Surely not," he replied.
"Ah, you have a treat in store," she exclaimed, clapping her hands
enthusiastically.
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