“I misbehave terribly,” said the Ink-Well, “when children don’t pay attention to me.”
“Yes,” said the Desk. “And I’m the one who suffers for it.”
“Do you really understand what I mean?”
“Of course,” said the Desk. “If a child is filling you from the big ink bottle and looks away at the wrong moment, you spill.”
“I don’t spill,” said the Ink-Well, with dignity. “I turn a somersault. Or I trickle. Down the desk.”
“Down me,” said the Desk. “And is that very considerate?”
“Ha!” said the Ink-Well. “As if you cared. You’re made of wood.”
“That’s true,” the Desk admitted. “But even made of wood, I like to be varnished once in a while. It’s rather like having one’s face washed.”
“People wash their faces rather more than once a year,” said the Ink-Well.
“I’m made of wood,” said the Desk. “Once a year suits me perfectly. And besides — if it were done more often, you’d only trickle on me again, and I’d look a fright.”
“Very kind of you,” said the Ink-Well, “to say you’d look a fright with my ink on you. I think it adds a great deal, personally.”
“It adds ink,” said the Desk. “It doesn’t add beauty.”
The school bell rang. The Desk and the Ink-Well fell silent.
