“Certainly, come by all means,” said the little old lady.
Berty looked doubtful and did not second the invitation.
“What time is supper?” asked Roger.
Grandma looked at Berty. “I let her have her own way about the meals. Breakfast is at eight, dinner at twelve—the universal hour on this street—high tea at six, supper is a movable feast—what time to-night, granddaughter?”
“Ten,” said Berty, promptly, “but we’ll sit on the veranda first and talk. Some one must keep at the piano all the time, playing dreamy music.”
“All right,” said Roger, promptly, “we’ll be here.”
Berty followed him to the street door. “You’ll be nice to the Mayor.”
“Nice!—I guess so.”
“But don’t be too nice—don’t make fun of him.”