S'pose he's goin' to call on Mrs. Wiltbank, Mrs. Bierbauer put forward.
O! do you think . . . ?
She ain't no more sick than you are, Mrs. Fox, an' he goes callin' on her every day. It's a blessin' his wife don't catch on!
She ain't none too spry these days.
He orter be home carin' for her'stead o' gallivantin' round with well folks.
The doctor, driving his buggy, passed the house.
Mornin', doctor, Mrs. Bierbauer hailed him in her most ingratiating tones.
Good morning, Mrs. Bierbauer, the physician replied. Nice weather we're having.
Too hot! she shouted. Her expression changed as she turned to her friend. Did you see him? she demanded triumphantly. He was red as a beet!
At this juncture Mrs. Bierbauer's black tom-cat came out from under the porch, walked up the steps, his tail high in the air, approached his mistress, sniffed her feet once or twice, circled around several times, rubbed his side ecstatically against the pink and blue jardiniere, and finally curled up in a ball and fell asleep.
Trilby ain't been feelin' very well.
What's the matter with him?
He et a robin last week. I think it's the feathers.
In the house next door an invisible pair of hands began to pound out Ethelbert Nevin's Narcissus at a terrific tempo.
