"And I'm seven, going on eight"--Channing had not yet yielded the
turkey in sight for the salad to come, and his fork was still being
steadily applied--"and all we have for supper--"

"Is bread and milk." Dorothea's hand waved silence to Channing.
"Antoinette says the milk is magnificent, but I'd rather have
something with more taste that isn't so grand. I wish I'd been born
before all this science had been found out. If we sneeze we have to
be sprayed, and if we cough we're sterilized or something, and the
only word in the English language Antoinette pronounces right is
germs! You'd think they were ghosts, the way she lifts her eyes and
raises her hands when she says it. And she don't know what they are,
either. Did you kiss me when I was a baby, Uncle Winthrop?"

"I did."

"In the mouth?"

"In the mouth."

"Well, they don't let anybody kiss babies that way now. But if ever
I have any I'm going to let people kiss them and squeeze them, too.
I mean nice people. I don't believe in scientifics for children."

"But, my dear Miss Warrick"--Mr. Laine was also waiting on his young
nephew--"suppose your husband does. Surely a man should have some
say in the upbringing of his family!"

"Father don't." Dorothea leaned forward and selected an olive
critically. "Father would let us have anything we want, but he says