"Do you know, Phil," Ken said, voicing at once the thought he had felt all the way up Winterbottom Road; "do you know, I think, after all, this is the very best thing we could have done."
"What?" Phil asked, not being a mind-reader.
"This," Ken said, sweeping his arm about the lamplit room. "This place. We thought it was such a horrible mistake, at first. It was a sort of venture to take."
"A happy venture," Felicia murmured, bending over her sewing. "But it wouldn't have been so happy if the defender of his kindred hadn't slaved on the high seas 'for to maintain his brither and me,' like Henry Martin in the ballad."
"Oh, fiddlestick!" said Ken. "Who wants to loaf around? Speaking of loaf, I'm hungry."
"Supper's doing itself on the stove," Phil said. "Look lively with the table, Kirk."
Kirk did so,--his efficiency as a table-setter had long since been proved,--and Ken, as the weary breadwinner, stretched out in a chair.
"Did you happen to remember," said Felicia, coming to the door, spoon in hand, "that the Kirk has a birthday this week?"
"It has?" exclaimed Ken. "I say, I'd forgotten."
"It's going to be nine; think of that!" said Phil. "Woof! My kettle's boiling over!" She made a hasty exit, while Ken collared his brother and looked him over.