“Well, I think I . . . ”
But the lady of the house said, “Oh, no! Mr. Jones, can’t you really stay a little longer?”
Jones was always truthful. “Oh, yes,” he said, “of course, I—er—can stay.”
“Then please don’t go.”
He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.
“Well now,” he said shyly, “I think I really . . . ”
“You must go?” said the lady politely. “I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner . . . ”
“Oh well, so I could, you know,” Jones said, “if . . . ”
“Then please stay, I’m sure my husband will be delighted.”
“All right,” he said feebly, “I’ll stay,” and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.
Papa came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.
After dinner mamma undertook to “draw him out,” and showed him photographs.
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