"Good cigar, Aunt Charlotte." He rolled it between his lips.
Aunt Charlotte's fingers tapped the arm of her chair. She waggled her head a little in time with the music. "It's nice to have something that smells like a man in the house."
"You vamp!" shouted Henry Kemp. He came over to Belle again who was seated in the most gracious chair the room boasted, doing nothing with a really charming effect. "Say, listen Belle, we don't have to stay so very late this evening, do we? I'm all tired out. I worked like a horse to-day downtown."
Before Belle could answer Charley called in from the other room, "Oh, mother, I'm going to be called for, you know."
Belle raised her voice slightly. "The poet?"
"Yes."
"In the flivver?" Her father's question.
"Yes. Now roar, Dad, you silly old thing. Imagine a girl like me being cursed with a father who thinks poets and flivvers are funny. If you'd ever tried to manage either of them you'd know there's nothing comic about them."
"There is too," contended Henry Kemp. "Either one of 'em's funny; and the combination's killing. The modern—uh—what's this horse the poets are supposed to ride?"
His wife supplied the classicism, "Pegasus."