“Guess the kids won’t be coming along to-night,” Mr. Wilde remarked to Billy, who was kindling some logs in the fireplace.
“I should say not! Mrs. Redmond wouldn’t let them, I guess. Hospitality is served with a capital H there.”
After supper with the wind howling all about and the rain pouring off the roof, they sat down to read. Ten o’clock found Billy yawning.
“That means we’ll hope for a better day to-morrow,” said Mr. Wilde.
But when morning brought nothing more than the doleful swish of wind and storm above their heads, they turned over with a sigh and slept until almost noon.
“Well, no sign of those little tramps yet,” Mr. Wilde said, a cup of hot coffee balanced in one hand and a two-weeks’-old copy of the Saturday Evening Post in the other.
“Thought you read that all.” Billy pointed to the Post.
“I did. And I know all the ‘ads’ by heart, too!”
“What’s the idea then?”
“Only that I can never read at breakfast time home. When I’m away like this I take a malicious delight in reading while I’m eating just because my wife tells me it’s bad for the digestion and also a serious breach of etiquette. Even though I’ve read these things over fifty times I enjoy them as much as though I’d never laid eyes on them before. Only at breakfast, though.”