During the afternoon, Millie had exhausted domesticity and herself alike—and there had been Joseph the Second. Mrs. Bindle did not read, they had no common friends, she avoided the pictures, and what she did see in the newspapers she so disapproved of as to close that as a possible channel of conversation.
"Aunt Lizzie," cried Millie in desperation for something to say, "you aren't making a good supper."
"I'm doing very nicely, thank you, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, who in a quarter of an hour had managed to envelop about two square inches of ham and three shreds of lettuce.
"You don't like the ham, Aunt Lizzie," protested the hospitable Millie; "have some pie."
"It's very nice, thank you, Millie," was the prim reply. "I'm enjoying it," and she proceeded to dissect a piece of lettuce to a size that even a "prunes and prisms" mouth might have taken without inconvenience.
"Charley," cried Millie presently. "I won't have you talking football with Uncle Joe. Talk to Aunt Lizzie."
A moment later she realized her mistake. Bindle returned to his plate, Charley looked at his aunt doubtfully, and conversation lay slain.
"Listen," cried Millie who, at the end of five minutes, thought she must either say something, or scream. "That's Joey, run up and see, Charley, there's a dear"—she knew it was not Joey.
Charley rose dutifully, and once more silence descended upon the table.
"Aunt Lizzie, you are making a poor meal," cried Millie, genuinely distressed, as Mrs. Bindle placed her knife and fork at the "all clear" angle, although she had eaten less than half what her plate contained.