"But we can exist without Charlotte Russes, I think," Nattie said. She had quite recovered her good humor, and was reconciled even to Mr. Stanwood's company; indeed, had secretly confessed he was really an acquisition. Such is the power of good beefsteak!
"Some other time we will talk about it," Cyn said. "And now, we must improvise you a cup, plate, knife, fork, and spoon. I know you must be hungry after your exploit."
Quimby blushed.
"I—you shall have fifty Charlotte Russes tomorrow!" he ejaculated. "But the articles you mention—I—have in my room, and will bring them. You see I—sometimes have a little private lunch myself, you know," and departing, he in a moment returned with his dinner accouterments which Cyn commanded him to put down at once, lest he demolish them.
"Let me see," she added, as he meekly deposited his burden on the nearest piece of furniture—which happened to be the piano. "I can make room for you here, next me, I think."
"No! no!" he exclaimed quickly; "if you will be so kind, I—I would rather sit on that little stool in the corner, where I can do no damage, you know!"
"Oh! we must not make a martyr of you!" laughed Nattie, as she cut a pie with a very dull knife, which caused the very unsteady table to shake, so that every one's coffee slopped over.
"No, indeed; there is plenty of room here," added Mr. Stanwood, steadying his cracked tumbler. But Quimby shook his head.
"Now, really—I—I shall feel much more comfortable if I may—if you will allow me to sit on the stool. I—I am used to it, you know! 'Pon my word, I—I mean all right, but some way I always make a mess of it!"
Cyn would have remonstrated further, but Mr. Stanwood said, "We had better let him be happy in his own way; I suppose he will not be easy unless we do!"