"What seasoning?" laughed Mr. Tucker.
"I don't care, just so it's pink."
"I believe I'll have what Father has. I like it pink, too."
"Well, cocoanut pie for mine," ordered Dum.
"And lemon meringue for mine," ordered Dee.
"You are not like the young man who never ate lemon meringue pie because it messed up his ears so, are you, Dee?" said Mr. Tucker; and so our gay little luncheon proceeded.
"My, how I hate to go to Cousin Park's!" sighed Father. "She is kind in a way, but so—so—ponderous."
"Poor Father!" and I patted his knee under the table, "I do wish you didn't have to go."
"Well, I have plenty of engagements that will keep me busy, and I won't have to do much more than eat and sleep there. But it is her long formal dinners that bore me so."
"Well, you have simply got to have dinner with us to-morrow, Saturday, evening at the Country Club, and no doubt these girls will have you fox-trotting before the evening is over," and Mr. Tucker would not take "No" for an answer,—not that Father was very persistent in his refusal. We dropped the dear man at Cousin Park's great, dark house and he had the look of "Give up all hope ye who enter here."