are—and what they are like to touch—and I thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock, and left him saying:
“You are worse and worse.”
She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and put her arm around my neck.
“Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.
“Half past eight—quite early,” said I.
“But I believe—I think I ought to be home now,” she said.
“Don’t go,” said he.
“Why?” I asked.
“Stay to supper,” urged Emily.
“But I believe——” she hesitated.
“She has another fish to fry,” I said.
“I am not sure——” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly.
“Why—no!” she said, blushing.
“Then stay to supper—will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr. Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs. Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good-night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.
“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said
