She smiled: "Ah yes; but do you really admire this?"

"Of course I do--think it dem foine."

She laughed outright--a laugh so gay that I joined her, though I could
not tell why. "As for sorrel," I added, "you ought to see The
Beauties: the fields are full of it, though the farmers don't seem to
admire it much."

"Well, I am very fond of the sorrel," she replied, "with the
clover-tops, the seed-globes of dandelion and the daisies by the
water: it makes quite a bouquet in yonder field."

I looked at her to see if she was chaffing me: not at all--she was
sober as a judge.

"Dem foine! I beg pardon, very nice indeed. How would you like to
carry it to the ball this evening?"

"I never take anything to a ball that I care to have appreciated," she
answered dryly.

"Aw! That is the reason you won't sing down there: isn't it, now? But,
really, they thought it fine the other night--quite clever, I heard
some of them say."

"Oh yes," with a weary smile that had a little contempt in it.

"Did that ugly little Italian know very much about singing? You seemed
pleased with his admiration."