"'Scuse," he said, without glancing back.
"Certainly," said Miss Schump, through aching tonsils.
There was an encore, the raucous-throated morning-glory taking up where
the ukulele had left off. Miss Schump sat on, the smile drawn more and
more resolutely across her face. Occasionally, to indicate a state of
social ease, she caught an enforced yawn with her hand.
After a while Mrs. Cobb entered, quietly, almost furtively, hands
wrapped muff fashion in a checked apron, sitting down softly on the
first of the camp-chairs near the door. She had the dough look of the
comfortable and the uncorseted fat, her chin adding a scallop as,
watching, her smile grew.
"It's great to watch the young ones," she said, finally.
Miss Schump moved gratefully, oh, so gratefully, two chairs over.
"It sure is," she said, assuming an attitude of conversation.
"Like I tell Gert, it makes me young again myself."
"It sure does."
"Give it to 'em in the house, I say, and it keeps 'em in off the
street."
"Your daughter is sure one pretty girl."
"Gert's a good-enough girl, if I could keep her in. I tell 'er of all my
young ones she's the prettiest and the sassiest.
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