Helen drew the light chair nearer, and smilingly looked up at him. “There,” she said. “Is this not cozy—just you and I?”
Armstrong smiled back into her radiant eyes with equal contentment. “This is absolute perfection, but you don’t imagine we can eat like this, do you?”
“I don’t feel a bit hungry,” she replied, cheerfully, making no attempt to move. “Uncle Peabody says we ought not to eat when we don’t feel like it, and I don’t feel like it now.”
“But what does Uncle Peabody say about not eating when you have been knocking about in an automobile all day and have the appetite of a horse?”
“Oh, you men!” cried Helen, straightening up with a pout. “I don’t believe there is a bit of sentiment in a man’s make-up, anyhow. Eat—eat—eat—” and she piled his plate high with generous portions from every dish within reach.
Uncle Peabody’s step upon the path gave warning of his approach.
“So I am in time after all,” he said. “I was afraid I should be obliged to eat my evening repast in solitary loneliness. But is this the way you follow my precepts?” he continued, as his eye fell upon Armstrong’s plate. “Can’t you take it on the instalment plan—or are you anticipating forming a partnership with a stomach-pump?”
“It is my fault, uncle,” replied Helen, contritely. “I can’t make Jack romantic, so I tried to stuff him to keep him good-natured. That is always the next best thing with a man.”
“Oh ho!” Uncle Peabody looked shocked as he drew a chair up to the little table. “So I have come right into a family quarrel, have I? Naughty, naughty, both of you!”
“I wish I could quarrel with him,” said Helen, “but he is too agreeable, even in his aggravating moods.”