CHAPTER EIGHT
"Scott," Catia let go the coffee pot and looked up to face him; "I do wish you'd begin to think about smartening yourself up a little."
Brenton, who still clung to his bachelor habit of reading the newspaper between swallows of coffee and snatches of toast and jam, looked up at the arraignment which lay in Catia's tone, if not within her words.
"Smarten myself up?" he echoed, in blank question.
"Yes." Catia put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands around her cup. "I was looking at you, Scott, all the time this last convocation was going on."
He smiled benevolently, by way of preparation for flinging himself once more upon the columns of his morning paper.
"You'd much better have been looking at the Bishop," he advised her good-temperedly.
She shook her head.
"The Bishop was all right," she said, with an emphasis so caustic as to catch and hold his attention.