"Gad!" said Mr. Hewston, more gray and pink, puffy and heavily financial than ever, "when will people learn to eat and drink without flowers on the table?"
"No flowers!" repeated Alice Wilstead. "It would look dull, would it not?" From her tone it was evident that she had paid little heed to his words.
"What difference does that make?" he argued irritably. "You don't go to dinner to look at the table decorations. But if they must have 'em, why can't they have the artificial kind or those paper things. Anything but the beastly, smelly, live ones."
"Don't you really care for them?" she asked, laughing. "I thought every one loved flowers. To tell the truth, they were about all that made that unending dinner bearable to me. They were so exquisitely arranged."
"Oh, that," in grudging admission, "goes without saying in this house, but," fretfully, "they were all the loud smelling kind."
"She always arranges them herself," said Mrs. Wilstead, "she has wonderful taste, wonderful. Her house, her clothes, even down to the smallest detail of the table. Marvelous!"
"Humph! she doesn't show the same taste in men," grunted Hewston. "No brains at all."
Mrs. Wilstead leaned forward to tap his arm with her fan.
"Do not make any mistake on that score," her voice was emphatic, "she has plenty of brains."
"Humph!" more scornfully than before. "Then I wish they'd keep her from making the fool of herself that she is doing now."