THE MAYOR'S ELDEST DAUGHTER is more to the point. Circling around the table, dishes balanced dangerously in one hand, she sees a butter knife making its way towards the jar of preserves.
Aha! she cries, grabbing with her free hand her sister's brown wrist, the butter knife flashing wildly like a fish twisting in a beak.
Let go, Emma says. I'm still eating.
No, her sister says. You let go. Let go of the knife.
But Emma is not yet finished with her breakfast. She would like to spread some jam on her last piece of bread. If she cannot spread her jam, like a lady, she will simply have to dunk her crust into the jar itself. So, forgetting the knife, she reaches out to grasp the lovely, golden, glowing jar that sings its siren song from across the table.
The eldest daughter perceives with alarm the younger's intent. The cutlery clatters, the dishes sway.
Take these!
The mayor finds himself responsible for the china.
And still pinching the brown wrist in one hand, his eldest daughter confiscates the treacherous jampot. She holds it up above her head, away from the clamorous hands of her sister, and looks down, as if from a great height, at her father's puzzled face.
Don't you see? she asks.