CHAPTER XXVI
"And you do not care for the Tilton-Jones combination?" she asked.
Philip shook his head. "I fail to admire either of them, although I least of any one should cast a presumptuous stone. Perhaps I am unduly prejudiced. I have known several hyphenated Jones people before, and for some reason I never got on with them. You see I was always addressing the wife as plain Mrs. Jones—perpetually overlooking the lean-to addition."
Isabel's laugh rippled. How very clever her husband was. "I shall keep you from forgetting this afternoon," she promised. "I am so glad to go out in a machine. Really I do not believe I could sit the saddle to-day. And this is too nice!" she declared, as she poured the coffee. "Are you not going down?" Then she extended a steaming cup. "Take this," she begged. "They have sent plenty for two; suppose we have breakfast together."
"But there is only one cup."
"What matter, when we have a full pot of coffee. And just see the toast and rolls."
Philip sat facing his wife, amused as he always was when he had only to obey.
"You drink first," she commanded.
"Tell me when to stop; I might take all."