credibly stepped out, had started up the path to the tea-room.

CHAPTER VII

Father's hand kept on aimlessly whittling, while his eyes poked out like
those of a harassed fiddler-crab when he saw Mrs. Vance Carter actually
stop. It was surely a dream. In his worry over inactivity he had found
himself falling into queer little illusions lately. He was conscious
that the chauffeur, whom he had bribed to stop some day, was winking at
him in a vulgar manner not at all appropriate to his dove-gray uniform.
He had a spasm of indignant wonder. "I'll bet a hat that fellow didn't
have a thing to do with this; he's a grafter." Then he sprang up,
bowing.

Mrs. Carter rustled up to him and murmured, "May we have some tea, here,
and a cake, do you know?"

"Oh yes, ma'am! Won't you step right in? Fine day, ma'am."

Mrs. Carter seemed not to have any opinions regarding the day. Quite
right, too; it wasn't an especially fine day; just _a day_.

She marched in, gave one quick, nervous look, and said, with tremendous
politeness: "May we have this table by the window? You have such a
charming view over the cliffs."

"Oh yes, ma'am! We hoped some day you'd take that table. Kind of kept
the view for you," said Father, with panting gallantry, fairly falling
over himself as he rushed across the floor to pull out their chairs and
straighten the table-cloth.

Mrs. Carter paid no attention to him whatsoever. She drew a
spectacle-case from her small hand-bag and set upon her beetling nose a
huge pair of horn-rimmed eye-glasses. She picked up the menu-card as
though she were delicately removing a bug--supposing there to be any bug
so presumptuous as to crawl upon her smart tan suit. She raised her chin
and held the card high.

"Uh, tea, lettuce sandwiches, cream-cheese sandwiches, chicken
sandwiches, doughnuts, cinnamon toast," she read off to her daughter.

So quickly that he started, she turned on Father and demanded, "What
sort of tea have you, please?"

"Why, uh--just a minute and I'll ask."

Father bolted through the door into the large, clean, woodeny,
old-fashioned kitchen, where Mother was wearily taking a batch of
doughnuts out of the fat-kettle.

"Mother!" he exulted. "Mrs. Carter--she's here!"

Mother dropped the doughnuts back into the kettle. The splashing fat
must have burnt her, but beyond mutely wiping the grease from her hand,
she paid no attention to it. She turned paper white. "Oh, Seth!" she
groaned. Th