"Don't talk to me about patient waiting! Sylvia, is it really, honestly true I've only got three more weeks of it?"
"It's really, honestly true. Good-night, darling, you must go home."
"And you've only got three weeks more of being able to say that! I suppose I must obey—but remember, you'll have to promise to obey pretty soon."
"I'll be glad to. Austin—"
"Yes, dear—Sylvia, I think your cheeks are softer than ever—
"I don't think Edith looks very well, do you?"
"Why, I thought she never was so pretty! But now you speak of it she does seem a little fagged—not fresh, the way you always are! Too much gadding, I'm afraid."
"I'm afraid so. Couldn't you—?"
"My dear girl, leave all that to Peter—I've got my hands full, keeping you in order. Sylvia, there's one thing this trip has convinced me we've got to have, right away, and that's more motors. We've got the land, we've got the buildings, and we've got the stock, but we simply must stop wasting time and grain on so many horses—it's terribly out of date, to say nothing else against it. We need a touring-car for the family, and a runabout for you and me,—do sell that great ark of yours, and get something you can learn to run yourself, and that won't use half the gasoline,—and a tractor to plough with, and a truck to take the cream to the creamery."
"Well, I suppose you'll let me give these various things for Christmas presents, won't you? You're so awfully afraid that I'll contribute the least little bit to the success of the farm that I hardly dare ask. But I could bestow the tractor on Thomas, the truck on your father, and the touring-car on the girls, and certainly we'll need the runabout for all-day trips on Sundays—after the first of September."