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The dutiful husband drew from his pocket a long slip of paper and a small stubby pencil. Having a poor memory, he had formed the habit of making a note of everything his wife suggested, so that he could fulfill her wishes in future. The notes were plentiful, but they failed in some unaccountable way to prod his memory. Mrs. Bennett rose and tucked him in snugly. “Let us drop it till school closes, Billy. Then we’ll talk it over.” He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.
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kez_ h (Kez_h)
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Conrad
“Surely Billy has earned it, Mrs. Bennett,” Mr. Smith urged. “Billy! My—boy!” Mrs. Bennett bent over him; and he felt a tear where her cheek touched his. “A whale is a fish bigger nor a house,” answered Pete, with ready assurance. Betty who secretly preferred to trip the light fantastic toe in this manner, maintained a discreet silence..
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