Phillips, on receiving
her refreshment. "Both kinds of sandwiches," she continued, peering round
her cup. "Were there three?" she asked with sudden shrewdness.
"There were macaroons," he replied; "and there was some sort of layer-cake.
It was too sticky. These are more sensible."
"Never mind sense. If there is cake, I want it. Tell Amy to put it on a
plate."
"Amy?"
"Yes, Amy. _My_ Amy."
"Your Amy?"
"Off with you,--parrot! And bring a fork too."
Cope lapsed back into his frown and recrossed the room. The girl behind the
samovar felt that her hair was unbecoming, after all, and that her ring,
borrowed for the occasion, was in bad taste. Cope turned back with his
plate of cake and his fork. Well, he had been promoted from a "boy" to a
"fellow"; but must he continue a kind of methodical dog-trot through a
sublimated butler's pantry?
"That's right," declared Mrs. Phillips, on his return, as she looked
lingeringly at his shapely thumb above the edge of the plate. "Come, we
will sit down together on this sofa, and you shall tell me all about
yourself." She looked admiringly at his blue serge knees as he settled down
into place.
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