“Wait!” I said as he started to leave, “don’t you want the soup tureen, too, or the ladle and some soup spoons?”
“No, thank you,” he answered politely. “None of the rest of us like soup, so we dish father’s up in the kitchen. He doesn’t like soup particularly, but he eats it because it goes down quick and lets him have more time for work.”
This time as he sped homeward, he didn’t spin the plate in air, but tried out a new plan of balancing it on a stick.
“I think,” I suggested gently, when our young neighbor was lost to our sorrowful sight, “that it might be well to invest in another dozen or so of soup plates. I will see about getting them at wholesale rates. Our supply will soon give out if our new neighbors continue to cultivate the soup and borrowing habit.”
“I will buy some at the five cent store,” replied Silvia. “I think I had better call upon them tomorrow and see what manner of people they can be.”
When I came home the next day it was quite evident that she had called.
“Well,” I inquired, “what do they keep––a soup house?”
“They are literary people, the highest of 16 high-brows. Their name is Polydore, and the head of the house–––”
“Mr. or Mrs.?” I interrupted.