on my booberrish? Motha--_peesh!_"

"Oh, hush a minute, Rosalind dear. I don't know, Oliver. I'll speak to Mr.
Field about it if you like. I should think they'd take little sketches like
a couple of those Nancy showed you--though they aren't quite smart-alecky
enough for 'Mode'--" "Grandfather, Grandfather! How old would you be if you
were as old as Methusaleh? Are you older than he is? _Grandfather!_"

Entrance and exit of a worried Sheba with the empty dish of blueberries,
marred only by Jane Ellen's sudden cries of "Stop thief!"

Mrs. Crowe tried to think a little ahead. Tomorrow. Ice. Butter. Laundry.
Oliver's breakfast early again. Louise--poor Louise--two years and a
half since Clifford Lychgate died. How curious life was; how curious and
careless and inconsecutive. The thought of how much she hoped Oliver's
novel would succeed and the question as to whether the Thebes grocer who
delivered by motor-truck would be cheaper than the similar Melgrove bandit
in the long run mixed uneasily in her mind.

Rosalind had seemed droopy that morning--more green crab-apples probably.
Aunt Elsie's gout. Oliver's marriage--she had been so relieved about Nancy
ever since she had met her, though it had been hard to reconcile domestic
virtues with Nancy's bobbed hair. She would make Oliver happy, though,
and that was the main thing. She was really sweet--a sweet girl. Long
engagements. Too bad, too bad. Something _must_ be done about the stair
carpet, the children were tearing it to pieces. "Ice tea! Ice tea!"

"No, Jane Ellen."

"Yash."