If David wants to be particularly polite he sometimes asks Mother
to tell him her story about the young man with the mustache. She
has one that is tremendous dull because there are so many
thinking places in it. "And then--and then--" Mother will say,
and after that the story doesn't get on worth anything. The worst
about it is that it always takes such a long while for her to
reach the part which tells of the time when the young man started
to raise a mustache.

"How did he start?" David never fails to ask.

"By not shaving his lip."

It is now that David feels of his white lip with the tip of his
red tongue and then stoutly declares:

"I have not shaved _my_ lip."

"It was brown, like your hair," says Mother, "and when it was
about half-grown it began to curl up at the ends. The boys made
fun of it, but it was very beautiful and ever so soft and fine."

"Truly, was it?" asks David, and then something blooms pink in
Mother's cheeks. That is the one interesting thing about her
story, and up to that point he can always stand her narrative very
well; for he is always watching for the pretty pinkness. But when
that is gone, his interest goes too. It seems very ordinary to him
that this young man should have studied mechanics and become a
great engineer and invented things, and made discoveries.