“No,” she said.
“No new row?” inquired Tom.
“No,” said Euphrasia. She was a direct person, as we know, but true descendants of the Puritans believe in the decency of preliminaries, and here was certainly an affair not to be plunged into. Euphrasia was a spinster in the strictest sense of that formidable and highly descriptive term, and she intended ultimately to discuss with Tom a subject of which she was supposed by tradition to be wholly ignorant, the mere mention of which still brought warmth to her cheeks. Such a delicate matter should surely be led up to delicately. In the meanwhile Tom was mystified.
“Well, I'm mighty glad to see you, anyhow,” he said heartily. “It was fond of you to call, Euphrasia. I can't offer you a cigar.”
“I should think not,” said Euphrasia.
Tom reddened. He still retained for her some of his youthful awe.
“I can't do the honours of hospitality as I'd wish to,” he went on; “I can't give you anything like the pies you used to give me.”
“You stole most of 'em,” said Euphrasia.
“I guess that's so,” said young Tom, laughing, “but I'll never taste pies like 'em again as long as I live. Do you know, Euphrasia, there were two reasons why those were the best pies I ever ate?”
“What were they?” she asked, apparently unmoved.