“Isn’t it funny,” laughed Lois, as they delayed finishing their cream and cake, “to be having dinner here with my family? Last time it was with Uncle Roddy.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Polly. “I wonder what happened to the parrot?”
The waiter, who was passing the coffee, heard the question and said sadly:
“He died a month ago, Miss—of a cold in his
head. We miss him sore,” he added dolefully.
“What a shame!” exclaimed Polly and Lois together.
“I’ll have to write Uncle Roddy and tell him,” and Polly tried hard not to look amused.
The waiter looked grateful and after a polite “Thank you, Miss,” left the room solemnly shaking his head.
The trouble with a good time is that there is always an end in sight. We often don’t look for it, and then pretend it’s not there. But we’re sure to find it sooner or later lurking around the corner somewhere.
The end of this particular good time took the shape of the train to Albany, and the accusing hands of the hotel clock warned the Farwells of its near approach.