"You must excuse, Mr. Vetsburg, how this room looks. All day we've been sewing Ruby her new dress."
She caught up a litter of dainty pink frills in the making, clearing a chair for him.
"Sit down, Mr. Vetsburg."
They adjusted themselves around the shower of gaslight. Miss Kaufman fumbling in her flowered work-bag, finally curling her foot up under her, her needle flashing and shirring through one of the pink flounces.
"Ruby, in such a light you shouldn't strain your eyes."
"All right, ma," stitching placidly on.
"What'll you give me, Ruby, if I tell you whose favorite color is pink?"
"Aw, Vetsy!" she cried, her face like a rose, "your color's pink!"
From the depths of an inverted sewing-machine top Mrs. Kaufman fished out another bit of the pink, ruffling it with deft needle.
The flute lifted its plaintive voice, feeling for high C.