“The creation of a pie like this,” said I, “transcends the achievements of Praxiteles.”
“If I could make a pie like this,” said Miss Goodwin, “I should resign from the dictionary and open a bakeshop.”
Mrs. Pillig stood in the doorway, her thin, worried face wreathed in smiles. Under her elbow I saw Peter peeping through, less curious concerning us, I fancied, than the fate of the pie.
“You lose, Peter,” I called. “There ain’t going to be no core.”
At the sound of my voice Buster came squeezing into the room, and put his forepaws in my lap. Then he went around the table greeting everybody, and ended by nestling his nose against Miss Goodwin’s knee. I slid back my chair, supremely content. Bert slid back his. I reached to the mantel for a box of cigars and passed one to Bert, along with a candle, for I had no lamp in the dining-room as yet, nor any candles for the table. That was a little detail we had forgotten. Bert bit off the end, and puffed contentedly.
“That’s some seegar,” he said. “Better’n I’m used ter. Speakin’ o’ seegars, though, reminds me o’ old Jedge Perkins, when he went to Williams College. They used ter what yer call haze in them days, an’ the soph’mores, they come into the young Jedge’s room to smoke him out, an’ they give him a dollar an’ told him to go buy pipes an’ terbacker; so he went out an’ come back with ninety-nine clay pipes an’ a penny’s worth o’ terbacker, an’ it pleased the soph’mores so they let him off. ’Least, that’s what the Jedge said.”
We rose and went back into the south room, followed by Buster. Bert was puffing his cigar with deep delight, and sank into the depths of a Morris chair, stretching out his feet. “Say, Marthy, why don’t we hev a chair like this?” he said.
“’Cause you can’t stay awake in a straight one,” she replied.
Mrs. Bert wandered about the room inspecting my books and pictures like a curious child. Miss Stella and I watched them both for a moment, exchanging a happy smile that meant volumes.
“I’m so glad you invited them,” she whispered.