"Oh, fudge! your father likes men who slam doors, talk loudly, and bang their fists in their palms."
"Not always," smiling; "at least on days like this."
"Yes, I understand," replied Mrs. Cathewe, laughing. "B-r-r-r! I can see him. Jack says he eats them alive, whatever he means by that."
"Poor daddy!"
"I remember the late rector. Whenever he made a begging call he first asked the servant at the door, 'How's the general's liver to-day?' 'Bad, bad, your worship.' I overheard this dialogue one day while waiting for you. I had to bury my head in the sofa pillows."
"You are going to have Brussels sprouts for salad?"
"Yes. Why?" amused at this queer turn in the conversation.
"I was wondering if your Mr. Sullivan will call them amateur cabbages?"
"Why did you remind me of him? I had almost forgotten him."
"If only I can keep a sober face!" said Caroline, clasping her hands. "If he wears a dress suit, it is sure to pucker across the shoulders, be short in the sleeves, and generally wrinkled. He will wear a huge yellow stone, and his hair will be clipped close to the skull. It will be covered with as many white scars as a map with railroad tracks. 'Mr. Sullivan, permit me to introduce the Reverend Richard Allen.' 'Sure.' Oh, it is rich!" And the laughter which followed smothered the sound of closing doors. "Nan, it is a tonic. I wish I were a novelist's wife. 'Mr. Sullivan, I am charmed to meet you.' I can imagine the rector's horror."