Mr. Kipley turned a philosopher’s eye upon the wife of his bosom.
“He’s got good principles, M’r’,” he said, with conviction; “’n’ a very entertainin’ way of puttin’ things. He’s good company.”
“What was he talkin’ about?” asked Mrs. Kipley, interestedly.
Mr. Kipley’s cough was extremely apologetic.
“Come to think of it, I guess I did most of the talkin’,” he said, with some embarrassment.
“I should say ’t was likely,” said Mrs. Kipley, dryly; and she disappeared in the house. She reappeared for a parting shot. “I s’pose his principles was good because he agreed with you,” she observed, sarcastically. Mr. Kipley gazed at the evening star confidentially.
“Beats all about women!” he mused. “They act’s if all the principles was theirs, ’n’ kind of exasperated if you’ve got any. ’N’ more if you ain’t,” he murmured.
He had refilled his pipe, and was looking placidly across the lights of the town to the hills beyond.
Hemmy came up the walk with the light of a new and lovely romantic suggestion in her eyes.
She sat down beside her father and slipped a warm, plump hand in his.