She twisted her head, bit her lips unconcernedly, and turned her eyes to the remote. She was affecting indifference to, this scene, in which her soul delighted. “No,” said Monona, inflection up, chin the same. Deacon brightly, exploding on “bread.” One wondered how she thought of it. What is this? Their progeny will not eat? What can be supplied?

Deacon’s eyes anxiously consulted his wife’s eyes. The child Monona made her lips thin and straight and shook her head until her straight hair flapped in her eyes on either side. “I don’t want any,” said Monona, in precisely her original tone. “No,” said Monona, inflected up, chin pertly pointed. Her remark produced precisely the effect for which she had passionately hoped. The child Monona was seated upon a book and a cushion, so that her little triangle of nose rose adultly above her plate. Deacon, and attacked the principal dish benignly. Her “Could you leave me another bottle of milk this morning?” would wring a milkman’s heart. Why she should say this so gently no one can tell. “On toast,” she added, with a scrupulous regard for the whole truth. In October he might be heard asking: “Where’s my beautiful fall coat?”

“Well, what have we on the festive board to-night?” he questioned, eyeing it. He seldom spoke as a man speaks who has something to say, but as a man who makes something to say. “Better turn down the gas jest a little,” Mr. This gas jet was high above the table and flared, with a sound. In the middle of the table was a small, appealing tulip plant, looking as anything would look whose sun was a gas jet.

Miss Lulu Bett by Zona Gale