I


APRIL

The Deacons were at supper. In the middle of the table was a small,
appealing tulip plant, looking as anything would look whose sun was a
gas jet. This gas jet was high above the table and flared, with a sound.

"Better turn down the gas jest a little," Mr. Deacon said, and stretched
up to do so. He made this joke almost every night. He seldom spoke as a
man speaks who has something to say, but as a man who makes something to
say.

"Well, what have we on the festive board to-night?" he questioned,
eyeing it. "Festive" was his favourite adjective. "Beautiful," too. In
October he might be heard asking: "Where's my beautiful fall coat?"

"We have creamed salmon," replied Mrs. Deacon gently. "On toast," she
added, with a scrupulous regard for the whole truth. Why she should say
this so gently no one can tell. She says everything gently. Her "Could
you leave me another bottle of milk this morning?" would wring a