Lucy colored very much, and said,
“Yes, he came at the usual hour.”
“Well,” he said, looking as if he expected her to say something more.
She colored still more painfully as she said,
“I did not think you would be home to dinner—and—”
“Oh, I understand,” said her husband laughing, though embarrassed, “you did not happen to feel hungry when the cook came for orders, and so thought you did not want any dinner, and that I should stay down town. Well, Hastings,” turning to his friend, “as Mrs. Coolidge wont give us any thing to eat, I’ll see we have something fit to drink. Here Joe,” turning to the man, “take this key and go into the wine cellar, and bring me one of those bottles with a card label—and see that you don’t shake it coming up stairs. There,” he said, “Hastings, try that.”
“It’s exquisite,” returned his friend, “wine for an emperor.”
And so, what with the wine and the stew, Mr. Hastings seemed to make a very good dinner, though Lucy felt as if she would be glad to get under the table, and Tom did not feel much better.
“Now, Lucy, dearest,” said he, as the door closed upon their guest, “what did you mean by ordering such a dinner?”
Tears started in her eyes as she said,