“Tea and toast?” cried the one in pink. “I’m good for dinner. Um Gotteswillen, what do you suppose I came down for?”
“I wasn’t sure,” said his friend mildly; “you must admit yourself that your attire is misleading. My book on social etiquette says nothing as to when it is correct to wear a pink silk robe over blue and white striped pajamas. However, there’s no denying your presence, and what can’t be denied must be supplied, so what will you have?”
“Everything.”
Mitchell dived into the edibles generally and Burnett’s void was provided with fulfillment.
“We were talking about Aunt Mary,” Clover said presently. “We were saying that neither you nor she would be up to a coach or down to a picnic for one while.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Burnett. “I feel up to pretty nearly anything now that I can eat again. Pass over the horseradish, will you?”
“You’re one thing, my sweet pink friend,” said Clover gently, “but Aunt Mary’s another. I’m not saying that New York has not had a wonderfully Brown-Sequardesque effect on her, but I am saying that if she is to be raised and lowered frequently, I want to travel with a portable crane.”
“Hum, hum, hum!” cried Jack. “May I just ask who did most of the heavy labor of Aunt Mary yesterday?—As the man in the opera sings twenty times with the whole chorus to back him—‘’Twas I, ’twas I, ’twas I, ’twas I—’”
“Hand over the toast, Clover,” said Burnett. “I don’t care who it was—it was a success anyhow, for she’s upstairs and still alive, and I say she’d enjoy coaching out Riverside way, and—” he choked.
“Slap him anywhere,” said Mitchell. “On his mouth would be the proper place. Such poor manners,—coming down to a company lunch in another man’s bath-robe and then trying to preach and eat dry toast at once.”