"My God! That was some cherry pie!"
Bob watched her depart, wilting, and turned to his wife.
"There you are, Emily!" he protested. It was as if he said, "Look how your child acts." She was, in fact, still Emily's child, as she had always been. Bob accepted responsibility now for her no more than ever. "She talks as if I was a Long Island millionaire. As if she couldn't waste her precious time saving a mere Packard from a smash-up. How many times have I told her not to pile more than eight people into the car? And thirteen of them piled out. One after another. Sitting on one another's laps. Just sitting on one another. A fat chance of the boys using their own cars when they can get a girl to hold on their knees. And when I bawled her out, she said there were only two in the front seat! If Johnnie hadn't happened to see that truck——!" Bob shrugged. "And all she says, in the end, is, 'Send up the old bus. My God! What a pie!'"
"Well, Bob, I've told you that she's reached years of discretion——"
"Discretion! That's a good one!"
"She chooses to use your expressions. I'm not going to say anything. I spanked her often enough for it when she was a baby. Anyway, she only does it to annoy you. She never uses it with me."
"God alone knows what she uses when she's with that gang!"
"Oh, well, they're having a good time, Bob. She won't be home many more summers."
"Why won't she? Where's she going?"
"I don't know—exactly. I mean—she'll be getting married. She'll be taking up some work."