PAINTER AND PICTUREL
Scotty Baker dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirred the mixture carefully, glancing the while smilingly at his wife and daughter.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "it seems good to be back here again."
Mrs. Baker was deep in a letter she had just opened, but Florence returned the smile companionably.
"And it seems mighty good to have you back, daddy," she replied. "Just think of our being alone, a pair of poor defenceless women, three whole months without a man about the house! If you ever dare do it again you're liable to find one in your place when you return. Isn't he, mamma?"
Her mother looked up reproachfully. "For shame, Florence!" she cried.
But Scotty only observed his daughter quizzically. "I did—almost, this time, didn't I?" he bantered. "By the way, who is this wonderful being, this Sidwell, I've heard so much about the last few hours?" He was as obtuse as a post to his wife's meaning look. "Tell me about him, won't you?"
Florence laughed a bit unnaturally. It seemed her words had a way of returning like a boomerang.
"He's a writer," she explained laconically.
"A writer?" Scotty paused, a teaspoonful of coffee between the cup and his mouth. "A real one?"