“Tim—I oughtn’t! We oughtn’t!...”
“It’s right—you said so....” (Timothy had no idea he was being funny!)
The meadow, before these human babes stepped into it, was scooped with the rhythm of a perfect yellow bowl. But now the buttercups which had escaped the handling of Nell’s fever-fury, stood away, aloof and delicate, from those other marred and trampled patches ... buttercups wilting ... buttercups dead.
CHAPTER II
I
“Deb?—oh, she’ll be all right in December,” said Mrs Phillips to Beatrice, and Beatrice to Trudchen Redbury, and Herbert and Abe to Samson, and Samson to Grandmother Phillips, and Grandmother Phillips to Flo and Martha and Gwendolen. “All right in December....”
“Poor Deb!”
“I think Samson is simply too sweet with her. I’ve never seen anyone so devoted.”
“Of course it’s wonderful luck for Deb that he should be employed at the arsenal, so that he can get home every evening.”