But take a look at the proprietress (Rita they call her), with her gorgeous Titian hair and delft-blue apron; at her son Sidney, fair, limp, slim, English-voiced, with a deft way of pouring after-dinner coffee, and hair the colour of corn.

They are obviously play-acting and enjoying it.
Ask Rita her nationality.

She will fix you with eyes utterly devoid of a twinkle and answer: "I?
I am part Scotch terrier, and part Spanish mongrel, but _mostly_ mermaid!" Rita goes to the sideboard to cut someone a slice of good-looking pie.
She overhears a reference to the "Candlestick," a little eating place chiefly remarkable for its vegetables and poetesses.
"If they eat nothing but vegetables no wonder they take to poetry," is her comment.

But still she does not smile.

If you giggle, as every child knows, you spoil the game.