When Jimmy had departed, Mary rang for Timothy. In a few moments he appeared. His face registered his disgust. When Mary told him what she wanted, his nose turned up perceptibly.
As he departed, Mary surveyed his rigid back.
"When I start my book," she muttered, "he'll be the first thing I paste in it."
Jimmy dressed in such haste he forgot his tie. When he went back to look for it, it was gone.
"I don't care," he told Mary. "Ties are a nuisance anyway."
Mary had slipped off one shoe because her bunion hurt.
"We're going to have a change of weather," she said. "These feet of mine are regular barometers. It's a good thing they are because lately they're not good for much of anything else."
Timothy appeared, pushing a tea-cart on which was a large plate of tiny cheese sandwiches and a percolator filled with coffee. He couldn't have looked more sour if he had been seasick.
"Is that all, Madame?" he asked icily.
"Yes, thanks," she said. "If we need more sandwiches, I'll let you know." When he had gone, she turned to Jimmy. "Some day," she confided, "I'm going to have that bird shot and stuffed and fixed up swell in a glass case, suitable for an old-fashioned mantel or a whatnot cabinet."
"This is perfect," exclaimed Jimmy. "Now if I dared smoke my old corn-cob pipe it would be Heaven."
"Go ahead," she said amiably. "Make yourself comfortable. I was trying to decide whether I could risk taking a pinch of snuff."
Jimmy drew out his pipe and stuffed it full of tobacco. Then he threw back his head and laughed heartily.
"You're priceless," he declared.
"Maybe I am now," said Mary shortly, "but I didn't used to be."
The evening was a tremendous success. They devoured all the sandwiches and not a drop of coffee did they waste. Except a couple of spots got on Jimmy's vest.
"I am philanthropic," he chuckled. "My vest shares all my
135
