“Don’t mind him, Alice.”
“I don’t. He’ll grow up some day.”
“There, Mrs. West,” he said, striking an attitude of triumph; “you see, this sensible young woman realizes that I am young. Profit by her example.”
Darkness was closing in, but Mrs. West protested that it would be far more pleasant to sit, chat and drink tea by the firelight than to have the lamp brought in.
“What a quaint quartette we are!” said West. “I, sedate and elderly; Alice, sedate and quite young; Agatha, the child; and Fred—well, all cynics are old.”
“Are you a cynic?” asked Mrs. West, handing him his cup.
“What do you mean by a cynic?”
“I always think cynics are—disagreeable and——”
“And you ask me if I am one!”
“Had you then, Aggie!” laughed her husband.