D. As a result, when he
stood before the large canvases of Mr. Watts at the Tate he was
so heavy and correctly appreciative, so ready not to enjoy the
stories in the pictures of Millais, that Istra suddenly demanded:
"Oh, my dear child, I have taken a great deal on my hands.
You've got to learn to play. You don't know how to play. Come.
I shall teach you. I don't know why I should, either. But--come."
She explained as they left the gallery: "First, the art of
riding on the buses. Oh, it is an art, you know. You must
appreciate the flower-girls and the gr-r-rand young bobbies.
You must learn to watch for the blossoms on the restaurant
terraces and roll on the grass in the parks. You're much too
respectable to roll on the grass, aren't you? I'll try ever so
hard to teach you not to be. And we'll go to tea. How many
kinds of tea are there?"
"Oh, Ceylon and English Breakfast and--oh--Chinese."
"B--"
"And golf tees!" he added, excitedly, as they took a seat in
front atop the bus.
"Puns are a beginning at least," she reflected.
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