"I'm very sorry, Othello Sahib," said Desdemona firmly, "but I don't believe a word of it.
"Do you, Father?" she added, turning to the Doge, or Dodge, or Dog, of Venice.
Venus certainly shook his head violently—but this may have been due to the fact that a large ant was exploring the interior of his right ear.
"No—I thought you didn't," continued Desdemona, on receiving this sign of paternal incredulity. "I don't believe the little liar ever set eyes on Noah in his life."
Turning to her suitor, Desdemona fixed him with a cold and cruel eye.
"Try another," said she. "Better have a go at a 'field' one, if that's the best you can do about the flood."
"I can't think of a field one just for a minute," replied the saddened Othello, "but I wemember the piece of poetry Buthter made up about Mithter Bell of the Rutlands when he was taken ill on the field-day. Would that do for a 'field' story?"
"No," replied Desdemona, and, woman-like, at once added, "What was it?"
