Both Doromea and Michael jumped up at once. “We didn’t have a bite of lunch,” cried Michael, plumping down into his chair and attacking the olives rather crudely. “By the time we had finished the book, you had gone to Aunt Hester’s——” he turned to Anne.
“Yes,” said Anne, setting down the water-pitcher. “There was lunch on the buffet, you know.”
“I told you!” Doromea triumphed at Michael. “I said Anne wouldn’t forget—but you wouldn’t even go and look.”
“Oh, well——” Michael’s voice was a shade less agreeable than usual. “I knew she was busy in the garden all morning, and trimming Gladys-Marie’s hat—I didn’t suppose she’d think. Anyway, what does it matter? The dinner’s tremendously good. Come, Timmie, tell us what you’ve been doing—more Plain Stories?”
“Not so many more.” Timothy wondered inadvertently if Michael had put Anne’s elbows in the book—they were exceedingly nice elbows. “You see, there aren’t so many Plain People left to write about. Every one’s going in for being extraordinary, these days—psychic or something.” He looked at Doromea inquiringly.
“I go to New Thought lectures,” defended Doromea, promptly.
“Do you?” Timothy asked Anne.
“I don’t have time—besides, I’m afraid I wouldn’t understand. I never went to college or anything.”
“Oh!” said Timothy, approvingly.
“You see, Anne”—Doromea interposed with a quick kindliness—“Anne always lived in the country before she came to New York to keep house for her grandfather—that winter we met her—so she isn’t as interested in the new mental trend. You must take it up when we go back, though, dear; after all, it’s the thing that counts—one’s psychic education.”