I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders
from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."

He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about
the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and
doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden
there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops
trembling and she squares her shoulders.

"I'm--I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I--I'll do my best." And off
she marches to the kitchen.

And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham
omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon
express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with
them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her
first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to
give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to
death with that.

So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.

"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little
late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never
batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do--good
night!"