Oliver, while managing to get through a copious and excellent lunch in
spite of his sorrows, regards them with the morose pity of a dyspeptic
octogenarian for healthy children. It is all very well and beautiful for
them now, he supposes grimly, but sooner or later even such babes as they
will have to Face Life--Come Up Against Facts--
He is having a second piece of blueberry pie when he is summoned to the
telephone. Rather tiresome of Mother, really, he thinks as he goes out of
the dining-room--something about his laundry again most probably--or when
he is coming back.
"Hello, Oliver?" "Hello, dear. Anything important?"
Mrs. Crowe's voice has a tiny chuckle in it--a chuckle that only comes when
Mrs. Crowe is being very pleased indeed.
"Well, Oliver, that depends--"
"Well, Mother, _honestly_! I'm right in the middle of lunch--"
"Oh, I'll call up again, if you'd rather, Oliver dear." But Mrs. Crowe for
private reasons doesn't seem to be at all ashamed of taking up so much of
her son's very valuable time.
"Only I _did_ think it would interest you--that you'd like to know as soon
as possible.
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