"Well, well," answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, "I--I'm
sure I can't quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, a--a--it
occupies one, you know. I don't smoke; it takes the place of a pipe,
perhaps."

"Here's this old yellow pitcher," said Maria, coming out of the closet
with it in her hand. "The handle's cracked; you don't want it; better
give me it."

Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he
had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to
trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years.

"Oh, that pitcher--well, Maria, I--I don't know. I'm afraid--you see,
that pitcher----"

"Ah, go 'long," interrupted Maria Macapa, "what's the good of it?"

"If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather--" he rubbed his chin,
perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were
gone.

"Why, what's the good of it?" persisted Maria. He could give no
sufficient answer. "That's all right," she asserted, carrying the
pitcher out.

"Ah--Maria--I say, you--you might leave the door--ah, don't quite shut
it--it's a bit close in here at times." Maria grinned, and swung the
door wide. Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was
becoming unbearable.