"Say, won't I be glad to get back in harness!"
"You got to take it slow, Mil."
"And ain't you glad it's all over, Phonzie?"
"Am I!"
"Four weeks old to-morrow, and Ida May was over to-day and says she never seen a kid so big for his age."
"He takes after my grandfather—he was six feet two without shoes."
"You ought to seen him to-day laying next to me, Phonzie. He looked up and squinted, dear, for all the world like you."
A bell tinkled. In the frame of a double doorway a seventeen-year-old maid drew back the portières on brass rings that grated. In the room adjoining and beneath a lighted dome of colored glass a table lay spread, uncovered dishes exuding fragrant spirals of steam.
"Supper! Say, ain't it great to have you back at the table again, Mil?"
"Oh, I don't know, the way—the way you went hiking off last night to—to a ball."