Then he blushed. I suspected that it pleased him vastly.
"Do you think it an improvement?" he faltered, standing with his back to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height.
Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in. When she saw him, she stopped and stared.
"Well, ain't he tasty!" she cried.
[Illustration: Well, ain't he tasty.]
Then she courtesied most formally. "How do you do, Mr. Hope?" she said.
"And how is Mrs. Bolum?" returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her with his hand outstretched.
The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. Tim seized it, but he brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in one mighty embrace.