"It's a smokeless one," protested Phil meekly.
"The cat's foot!" quoth Eliza scornfully. "Don't tell me! There's no such thing." She partly filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, watching the wicks with a jealous eye.
Edgar removed himself from danger and looked with exasperation at Kathleen, who with eyes aglow was turning the sketches.
"If I ever worked as hard for tea as this I'll be hung!" he thought, and returned to the mandolin as the one congenial object in a forlorn abode.
Even its long silent strings spoke plaintively against the vulgar banging which was removing the barrel-head.
"There!" exclaimed Phil presently. "I rather fancy the way I did that. I can use that barrel again."
"Yes," assented Edgar as he strummed, "for kindlings for the oil-stove."
Phil drew the barrel nearer the table.
"Now for the plums in the pudding," he said, and began to draw forth some papered cups from the excelsior.
Kathleen dropped the sketches and unwrapped the packages. She had stood three cups and saucers on the table before Eliza turned from her labors about the stove.