Pelz, arch of glance toward Mr. Feist, who was stirring
also, his eyes lowered.
"Me, too," he said, softly.
"Jealous!" flashed Mrs. Pelz.
After an interval, and only upon despatching a servant, Miss Pelz
returned, the tears frank streaks now down her cheeks.
"Sit down, baby, and drink your coffee."
"Don't want any."
"Williams, bring Miss Bleema some hot coffee."
"I'm finished, mother--please!"
"I was telling Mr. Feist a while ago, Bleema, about your ambition to be
a writer, not for money, but just for the pleasure in it. What is it you
call such writing in your French, honey? Dilytanty?"
"Please, mamma, Mr. Feist isn't interested."
"Indeed I am, Miss Bleema! More interested than in anything I know of."
"She's mad at her papa, Feist, and when my little girl gets mad at her
papa there's nothing for him to do but apologize with a big kiss."
Suddenly Miss Pelz burst into tears, a hot cascade of them that flowed
down over her prettiness.
"Why, Bleema!"
"Now, now, papa's girl--"
The grandmother made a quick gesture of uplifted hands, leaning over
toward her, and Miss Pelz hiding her face against that haven of shrunken
old bosom.
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