“Who has been making fun of dear Uncle Peabody? I must have him tell you about his work himself. It is true that he believes most people overeat, and it is true that he is devoting his life and his fortune to finding out what the basis of proper nutrition really is; but as for starving—wait till you see him!”
“You have relieved me considerably,” Armstrong replied, gravely. “From what I had heard of your uncle I had expected nothing less than to be made an example of for the sake of science—and you have already discovered that I am really partial to my meals.”
“You can be just as partial to them as ever, Jack. But, seriously, I know you will find him most interesting, and I shall be surprised if his theories do not give you something new to think about.”
“His theories will not do for me,” said Armstrong, assuming a position of mock importance, “for I have always been taught that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius.”
“Splendid!” cried Helen. “That will be just the argument to start the conversation at our first dinner and keep it from being commonplace. I have been trying to think how we could get Uncle Peabody interested. It is only that first dinner which I dread, and you have helped me out nobly.”
“That makes two,” suggested Jack.
“Yes, two. Then there are the Sinclair girls, who have been studying here in Florence for nearly a year. They will come up from their pension. That makes four—and the others, you know, are Phil Emory and Dick Eustis, who arrive in Florence from Rome to-night. I don’t need to tell you anything about them.”
“There is a whole lot you might tell me about Emory if you chose.”
Armstrong looked slyly into his wife’s face.
“Shame on you, Jack!” Helen cried, flushing; “the idea of being jealous on your wedding trip!”