repast, even when served with roast pork.

Terry was twenty-two when Orville Platt, making his initial
Wisconsin trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented,
first beheld her piquant Irish profile, and heard her deft
manipulation of the keys. Orville had the fat man's sense of
rhythm and love of music. He had a buttery tenor voice, too, of
which he was rather proud.

He spent three days in Wetona that first trip, and every evening
saw him at the Bijou, first row, center. He stayed through two
shows each time, and before he had been there fifteen minutes
Terry was conscious of him through the back of her head. Orville
Platt paid no more heed to the stage, and what was occurring
thereon, than if it had not been. He sat looking at Terry, and
waggling his head in time to the music. Not that Terry was a
beauty. But she was one of those immaculately clean types. That
look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm. Her clear,
smooth skin contributed to it, and the natural penciling of her
eyebrows. But the thing that accented it, and gave it a last
touch, was the way in which her black hair came down in a little
point just in the center of her forehead, where hair meets brow.
It grew to form what is known as a cowlick. (A prettier name for
it is widow's peak.) Your eye lighted on it, pleased, and from
it traveled its gratified way down her white temples, past her
little ears, to the smooth black coil at the nape of her neck.
It was a trip that rested you.

At the end of the last performance on the night of his second
visit to the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun