"I'm not sure dispositions are curable."
Mr. Claybourne returned: "Go on with dinner, children; mother will be down in a few minutes. I'm afraid she has a sick headache; the shock of last night," he explained.
"Dear dad," Helen smiled.
"What are you dear dadding me for?" her father inquired, as he sharpened the carving knife.
"I shan't tell you, if you can't guess."
"Not another hat—or more pocket money?" he said seriously.
"No, father, of course not!"
He shook his head and concentrated on carving a pair of ducks. In due time "Mother" returned, red-eyed and resigned. She sat at table and refused all food, although both Mr. Claybourne and I danced about the room urging this and that upon her.
"I know what you need to cheer you up, old girl," shouted Mr. Claybourne with hilarity that began to sound a little forced, "a bottle of champagne"!
Mother protested that her head felt bad enough now; it was absurd extravagance and set a bad example in the kitchen, to say nothing of champagne on Sunday being a sacrilege: her husband pooh-poohed it all, and went down cellar after a bottle.