Whenever Skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the dress-suit account had always cheered him. But this infallible method was not infallible to-night. Going out on the train Skinner had the "blues" and "had them good." Gloom was closing in on all sides; he could n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to Honey was taking hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic, indefinite apprehension.
At Meadeville, he purposely avoided Black, his next-door neighbor, with whom he customarily walked home from the depot—for Skinner was not the man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person.
When Skinner reached home, Honey drew him gently into the dining-room and pointed to the table. As she began, "Look, Dearie, oysters, and later—beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!"—the now familiar formula that had come to portend some new extravagance,—Dearie stopped her.
"Don't, Honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by course. Give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of surprises as dinner develops."
"I think you're horrid to stop me," Honey pouted reproachfully. "If I tell you what I 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much—once in anticipation, once in realization."
"But what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?"
"To do good is a privilege, is n't it?"
"Granted."
"Then it's a promise," was Honey's cryptic answer.
Honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing Dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. It was no use—Skinner could n't budge her.