say, some little change in your toilet would be quite appropriate before going on the street, and moreover, that my hat will not fit your head!"
At this, Quimby dropped the hat he held as if it had been red-hot, glanced at the chair whereon he had so lately distinguished himself, took up the tails of his coat one in each hand, revolved again, and then without a word darted from the room.
As well as she could from laughing, Cyn called after him, telling him not to mind about getting the Charlotte Russes, and to hurry back, but he made no response.
"Poor Quimby!" said Mr. Stanwood, wiping the tears of excessive mirth from his eyes. "He is such a good fellow, it is too bad he always is in hot water."
"Yes," assented Cyn, removing the chair with the remains of what had been clinging to it from sight, Nattie following it with a somewhat rueful glance. "Shall we wait for him? I fear our dinner is getting cold."
"I don't think we had better," Nattie, who had long been filled with a similar presentiment, responded. "There is no knowing whether he will return or not, and it's no use in having everything spoiled."
"I do not think he will expect us to wait," Mr. Stanwood said.
