"I feel," confessed Mrs. Fairchild, who had never looked prettier than she did at that moment, "as if I were jumping right out of my skin. Did I eat my soup! Or did Mary take it away?"
Roger roared.
"Oh, Mumsey!" he said. "You're younger than I was at three. If you had two girls to fix a tree for, you'd starve. You haven't touched your steak—what is that noise? This house is full of strange sounds—as if Santa Claus were stuck fast in our chimney. Shall I—"
Mrs. Fairchild hopped up, ran to the front hall, and slipped a record into the phonograph. A noisy record and the machine wide open.
"Why, Mumsey!" said Roger, as the clattering music filled the room, "I thought you hated that record."
"I didn't look," said Mrs. Fairchild, "to see what it was; but I'll admit taking it from the noisy pile."
A few moments later, Roger pushed his chair back.
"Please excuse me," said he. "I don't like the dessert we're going to have tonight."
"No, please sit still," pleaded his mother, hastily. "Put on another record—that nice brass-band one on top of the pile—and then come back to your place."
"I see," laughed Roger, "you're trying to drown the noises my giraffe is making upstairs."