She has yellow teeth and a little hump and very severe eyes, which are not even both equally severe. She is nearly always scolding us and, when she sees a chance, she pinches us.

 

The worst of all, however, is that she is constantly setting us a good example, which can easily end by gradually and inevitably¹ driving us to embrace wickedness.

 

Aunt Anna does not like beer-soup any more than we do. But of course she eats it with a voluptuous² expression on her face and looks angrily at my little boy, who does not even make an attempt to behave nicely:

 

"Why doesn't the little boy eat his delicious beer-soup?" she asks.

 

A scornful silence.

 

"Such delicious beer-soup! I know a poor, wretched boy who would be awfully³ glad to have such delicious beer-soup."

 

My little boy looks with great interest at Auntie, who is swallowing her soup with eyes full of ecstatic bliss⁴:

 

"Where is he?" he asks.

 

Aunt Anna pretends not to hear.

 

"Where is the poor boy?" he asks again.

 

"Yes, where is he?" I ask. "What's his name?"

 

Aunt Anna gives me a furious glance.

 

"What's his name, Aunt Anna?" asks my little boy. "Where does he live? He can have my beer-soup with pleasure."

 

"Mine too," I say, resolutely⁵, and I push my plate from me.

 

My little boy never takes his great eyes off Aunt Anna's face. Meanwhile, she has recovered herself:

 

"There are many poor boys who would thank God if they could get such delicious beer-soup," she says. "Very many. Everywhere."

 

"Yes, but tell us of one, Auntie," I say.

 

My little boy has slipped down from his chair. He stands with his chin just above the table and both his hands round his plate, ready to march off with the beer-soup to the poor boy, if only he can get his address.

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