“Why, you take me back to my grandfather’s farm in the country,” he replied, squeezing himself into the seat indicated.
“My granddaughter and I are very fond of simple dishes,” said Grandma. “Now I’ll ask a blessing on this food, and then, Berty, you must give Mr. Jimson some buttermilk. I see he is very thirsty.”
Mr. Jimson was an exceedingly happy man. He had pumpkin pie, and cold ham, and chicken, in addition to the other dishes he liked, and to wind up with, a cup of hot tea.
“This is first-class tea,” he said, abruptly.
“It came from China,” said Grandma, “a present from a Chinese official to my late husband. I will show you some of the stalks with the leaves on them.”
“Well, you look pretty cozy here,” said the Mayor, after he had finished his meal, and sat gazing out on the river. “I wish I could stay, but I’ve got a meeting.”
“Come some other time,” said Grandma, graciously.
“I’d like to,” he said, abruptly. “I rarely go out, unless it’s to a big dinner which I hate, and sometimes you get tired of your own house—though I’ve got a good mother and sisters,” he added, hastily.
“I have no doubt of that,” said Grandma. “They were kind enough to call on us.”
“You have a good granddaughter,” he said, with a curious expression, as he looked down into the back yard where Berty had gone to feed some white pigeons, “but,” he added, “she is a puzzler sometimes. I expect she hates me.”