"Well, they certainly are," replied Sylvia. "They will exactly fit Mr. Heath. He must be lots like Uncle Jason."
"He isn't," contradicted Marcia sharply. "He isn't at all like him."
"In size, I mean," amended Sylvia, timidly.
"Oh, in size. Possibly. I haven't thought about it," came tersely from Marcia. "Let me see! We planned to have lobster this noon, didn't we? But that won't do for him. He will need something more substantial."
"There are chops," suggested Sylvia, following to the door.
"So there are!" Marcia brightened. "I'd forgotten that. We have had such a confusing morning—" absently she reached for the plates.
"Shall I put some potatoes in the oven?"
"What?"
"Potatoes. Shall I put some in the oven? For him, I mean."
"Oh, yes—yes. Of course. Chops and—" regarding the girl vaguely, Marcia fingered the dishes in her hand.