Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin' out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it. M-m-m-m!
"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."
"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie's makin'.
Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.
"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?"
"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "this and making cheese."
"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.
"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories? Ask him."
"But—but I understood that—that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptor poet."
"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a pose!"