"You're not a camel," she truthfully observed,
"you don't have to fill up for a week; you get something
home. What Lettice'll think of you I can't
make out."

Substantial sections of pie were dispatched.
Barnwell K., valiantly endeavoring to emulate his
father, struggled manfully; he poked the last piece
of crust into his mouth with his fingers. Then, in
a shrill aside, he inquired, "Will Aunt Lettice have
the baby while we're here." His mother's hand
rang like a shot on his face, and he responded instantly
with a yell of appalling volume.

Lettice's cup struck sharply upon its saucer. The
delicate Rose flushed appropriately, painfully. The
culprit was hauled, incontinently, dolefully wailing,
to bed. The three men preserved an embarrassed
silence. Finally Gordon said, "Have a
cigar." His brother-in-law responded with alacrity,
but Sim preferred his plug tobacco, and Gordon
Makimmon twisted a cigarette. Sim and Rutherford
were patently uncomfortable amid the formality
of the dining room; and, at Gordon's suggestion,
trooped with relief out to the shed-like stable. There
they examined critically the two horses. Facing the
stalls was an open space, and on boxes and the remnant
of a chair they found places and smoked and
spat informally.

"You could study a life on women," Rutherford

[[225]]

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v?