"Ruby, in such a light you shouldn't strain your eyes."
"All right, ma," stitching placidly on.
"What'll you give me, Ruby, if I tell you whose favorite color is pink?"
"Aw, Vetsy!" she cried, her face like a rose, "_your_ color's pink!"
From the depths of an inverted sewing-machine top Mrs. Kaufman fished out
another bit of the pink, ruffling it with deft needle.
The flute lifted its plaintive voice, feeling for high C.
Mr. Vetsburg lighted a loosely wrapped cigar and slumped in his chair.
"If anybody," he observed, "should ask right this minute where I'm at, tell
'em for me, Mrs. Kaufman, I'm in the most comfortable chair in the house."
"You should keep it, then, up in your room, Mr. Vetsburg, and not always
bring it down again when I get Annie to carry it up to you."
"Say, I don't give up so easy my excuse for dropping in evenings."
"Honest, you--you two children, you ought to have a fence built around you
the way you like always to be together."
He sat regarding her, puffing and chewing his live cigar. Suddenly he
leaped forward, his hand closing rigidly over hers.
"Mrs. Kaufman!"
"What?"
"Quick, there's a hole in your chin.
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