e.

_I._ What kind of a house?

_She_ (_in one long breath_). A purple house with a yellow roof and
blue curtains and a green door and rose-trees with red roses and
hollyhocks and a dear little pussy-cat and a motor-car coming up the
drive.

[_This is executed in coloured crayons with a rapidity born of
hunger and long practice, and passed to the Hanging Committee for
inspection._]

_She_ (_examining it critically_). Ho! that isn't a _door_.

_I._ Yes, it is, Priscilla. It's a very nice _door_.

_She._ It isn't a door. It hasn't any knocker.

[_After all, when_ is _a door not a door? I finish the joinery job and
carry on with my bacon._]

_She_ (_suddenly_). There isn't any sun.

[_I sketch in the regulation pattern of circular sun, with eyes, a
nose and a smile complete._]

_She._ That isn't a sun. It hasn't any hair.

_I._ The sun doesn't have any hair, Priscilla.

_She_ (_decisively_). Nurse has hair.

[_This really seems unanswerable. Having amended Phoebus Apollo
I start in with my marmalade. After a lapse of a few minutes a low
hammering is heard from somewhere on the floor at the far side of the
table._]

_I._ Whatever are you doing, Priscilla?

_She._ Sooing my horse.

[_She is discovered beating the wheels of a grey wooden flat-backed
animal on a stand with a hammer procured from heaven alone knows
where._]

_I._ Well, don't hit him on the wheels, anyhow. (_A pause, subdued
noises and a sigh._) What are you doing now, Priscilla?

_She._ Sooing him on his back.

_I._ Doesn't that hurt him?

_She._ It hurts him very much, but he doesn't _say_ anything.

[_I come round to give veterinary advice._]

_I._ Don't you love your horse, Priscilla?

_She._ Yes, he's my friendly horse.

_I._ Well, don't bang him about like that; all the paint's coming off
him.

[_The carpet is in fact bestrewn with small flakes of grey paint from
the unhappy creature's flanks._]

_She_ (_derisively_). Ho! that isn't paint. That's snorts.

_I_ (_helplessly_). Whatever do you mean?

_She._ That's snorts. Snorts from his mouf. White snorts.

_I._ But why is your horse snorting from his mouth, Priscilla?

_She._ He's snorting from his mouf because I'm sooing him on his back.

Well, there you are, you know; what is one going to do about it? There
is a sort of specious plausibility about these replies after all; I
am no farrier, but I should think it quite likely that if you shoed
a cart-horse long enou