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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— Mrs. Wopp rose from her chair and seating herself on the sofa beside her husband took his thin hand in her substantial one, squeezing it openly. “Shade of Beelzebub! Where did you spring from?” shouted the astonished man..
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“It’s a hurry-up order for more,” Billy amended. “But it isn’t ten o’clock.” “They smell like the sunbeams was sprinklin’ them with scent,” she declared as she and Moses brought the last basketful into the house. Mrs. Wopp’s nightgown of ample proportions was left out a little longer being still somewhat damp. Several hands waved wildly and a chorus of voices eagerly broke in; through the childish babel could be heard a lisping narrative..
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