From this she goes on to tell me how grateful she and Dolly are for my goodness. She tells me this every morning. It is like a kind of daily morning prayer. At first I was overcome, and, not knowing how to ward off such repeated blows of thankfulness, stumbled about awkwardly among protests and assurances. Now I receive them in silence, copying the example of the heavenly authorities; but, more visibly embarrassed than they, I sheepishly smile. After the praises of my goodness come those of the goodness of the coffee and the butter, though this isn't any real relief to me, because their goodness is so much tangled up in mine. I am the Author of the coffee and the butter; without me they wouldn't be there at all. Dolly, while this is going on, says nothing but just eats her breakfast. I think she might help me out a little, seeing that it happens every morning and that she must have noticed my store of deprecations is exhausted. This morning, having made up my mind to be natural, I asked her straight out why she didn't talk. She was in the middle of her egg, and Mrs. Barnes was in the middle of praising the great goodness of the eggs, and therefore, inextricably, of my great goodness, so that there was no real knowing where the eggs left off and I began; and taking the opportunity offered by a pause of coffee-drinking on Mrs. Barnes's part, I said to Dolly, 'Why do you not talk at breakfast?' 'Talk?' repeated Dolly, looking up at me with a smile. 'Yes. Say things. How are we ever to be friends if we don't say things? Don't you want to be friends, Dolly?' 'Of course,' said Dolly, smiling. Mrs. Barnes put her cup down hastily. 'But are we not--' she began, as I knew she would. '_Real_ friends,' I interrupted. 'Why not,' I said, 'let us have a holiday from Merivale to-day, and just sit together and talk. Say things,' I went on, still determined to be natural, yet already a little nervous. '_Real_ things.' 'But has the reading--is there any other book you would pref--do you not care about Merivale?' asked Mrs. Barnes, in deep concern. 'Oh yes,' I assured her, leaving off being natural for a moment in order to be polite, 'I like him very much indeed. I only thought--I do think--it would be pleasant for once to have a change. Pleasant just to sit and talk. Sit in the shade and--oh well, _say_ things.' 'Yes,' said Dolly. 'I'd love to.' 'We might tell each other stories, like the people in the _Earthly Paradise_. But real stories. Out of our lives.' 'Yes,' said Dolly again. 'Yes. I'd love to.' 'We shall be very glad, I am sure,' said Mrs. Barnes politely, 'to listen to any stories you may like to tell us.' 'Ah, but you must tell some too--we must play fair.' 'I'd love to,' said Dolly again, her dimple flickering. 'Surely we--in any case Dolly and I--are too old to play at anything,' said Mrs. Barnes with dignity.