Hulda munched a piece of bread and took another long gulp of her beloved beverage, her capable red hand wrapped fondly about the steaming cup. "Naw Mrs. Pay-son. My grandfather he was drink twenty cup a day in old country."
"Yes, but what happened to him? He'd be living to-day——"
"He ban living to-day. Ninety years and red cheeks like apples."
In the living room Lottie took up her knitting again. The front parlor was unlighted but Charley went in and sat down at the old piano. She did not play particularly well and she had no voice. Lottie, knitting as she went, walked into the dim front room and sat down near Charley at the piano. Charley did not turn her head.
"That you, Lotta?" She went on playing.
"Yes, dear."
A little silence. "Now you stick to it!"
"I will."
In the living room Henry Kemp leaned over and kissed his wife. Straightening, he took a cigar out of his vest pocket and eyed it lovingly. He pressed its resilient oily black sides with a tender thumb and finger. He lighted it, took a deep pull at it, exhaled with a long-drawn pf-f-f, and closed his eyes for a moment, a little sigh of content breathing from him. He glanced, then, at his watch. Only seven-fifty. Good Lord! He strolled over to Great-aunt Charlotte who was seated near the front parlour doorway and the music. Her head was cocked. He patted her black-silk shoulder, genially.
"That cigar smells good, Henry."