“Well, you know best, of course. Gosh! What a muddle everything is. Sally,” she said, suddenly stopping at the door, “you're not going to hate poor old Fillmore over this, are you?”
“Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck.”
“He's worried stiff about it.”
“Well, give him my love, and tell him not to be so silly.”
Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively.
“You're an angel,” she said. “I wish there were more like you. But I guess they've lost the pattern. Well, I'll go back and tell Fillmore that. It'll relieve him.”
The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin in her hands to think.
3
Mr. Isadore Abrahams, the founder and proprietor of that deservedly popular dancing resort poetically named “The Flower Garden,” leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh and laid down the knife and fork with which he had been assailing a plateful of succulent goulash. He was dining, as was his admirable custom, in the bosom of his family at his residence at Far Rockaway. Across the table, his wife, Rebecca, beamed at him over her comfortable plinth of chins, and round the table his children, David, Jacob, Morris and Saide, would have beamed at him if they had not been too busy at the moment ingurgitating goulash. A genial, honest, domestic man was Mr. Abrahams, a credit to the community.
“Mother,” he said.