Gifford Barrett came back into the box, trailing after him a huge
wreath. He laid it down at Phebe's side.
"What in the world is that for?" she demanded. "I didn't write your
music for you."
"No" he answered, with a queer little smile; "but perhaps you
helped it on."
CHAPTER TWENTY
"Billy, I am low in my mind."
"You look it, Ted; but cheer up. What's the matter?"
"Plus a publisher; minus a maid," she answered enigmatically.
"Explain yourself."
"I shouldn't think I needed to. The bare fact is sufficient."
"Yes; but I am dense."
"Well, you knew Hannah had given warning, and now Delia is going, and I
expect to take to the kitchen for a space."
"Where's Patrick?"
"If that isn't man all over! Patrick is a treasure and good for almost
everything in the line of work; but I never discovered that he could cook
succulently. I should live through that crisis, William; but there is a
worse one. Mr. Gilwyn is going to lecture here, next week, and he will
expect us to entertain him."
"What of it? We can buy things."
"Yes, William, and we must also cook things. He has never been here, and
much depends upon the impression I create on his inner man. My book will
be ready to send in before long; and, if I give him dyspepsia in his
stomach, it will surely mount to his brain and lead him to reject my
_magnum opus_.
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