“Why, Sunday,” said Phil, with some hesitation,—“Sunday is—Sunday.”
“Quite true,” said the host. “It is in the country, at least; I wish ’twas so here.”
“Edgar,” said Mrs. Tramlay, “don’t make Mr. Hayn think we are heathens. You know we never fail to go to service on Sunday.”
“Yes,” said Tramlay; “we’re as good Pharisees as any other family in New York.”
“And after that dinner in the woods,” continued Lucia, “we went for pond-lilies: don’t you remember? I do believe I should have been drowned in that awful pond if you hadn’t caught me.”
Again Marge’s brows gathered perceptibly.
“He merely drew her aside from a muddy place,” whispered Mrs. Tramlay.
“Well, this is interesting,” said Tramlay, at the other end of the table. “Hayn, are there many places out your way where silly girls are likely to be drowned if they are allowed to roam about without a keeper?”
“Quite a number,” said Phil, as seriously as if his host expected a list of the Haynton ponds and their relative depths. “For instance, Boddybanks Pond is about——”
“Oh, that was the pond where we went canoeing,—that pond with the funny name! My! I wish I was in that very canoe, on that very pond, this very minute.”