Dicky rose stiffly, walked slowly around to my side of the table, and
gravely tapped my head in imitation of a phrenologist.

"Absolute depression where the bump called 'sense of humor' ought to
be. Too bad! Pretty creature, too. Cause her lots of trouble, in the
days to come," he chanted solemnly.

Then he bent and kissed me. "Don't be a goose, Madge," he admonished,
"and never, never take me seriously. I don't know the meaning of the
word. Come on, let's eat the thing-um bob. I'll bet it's delicious."

He uncovered the casserole and regarded the steaming contents
critically. "Smells scrumptious," he announced. "What's in the other?
Potatoes au gratin?" as he took off the cover of the other serving
dish. "Good! One of my favorites."

He piled a liberal portion on any plate and helped himself as
generously. He ate heartily of both dishes, ignoring or not noticing
that I scarcely touched either dish.

For I was fast lapsing into one of the moods which my little mother
used to call my "morbid streaks" and which she had vainly tried to
cure ever since I was a tiny girl.

Dicky didn't like my cooking! He was only pretending! Dicky was
disappointed in the way I received the announcement of his present!
Probably he soon would find me wanting in other things.

As I took our plates to the kitchen and brought on a lettuce and