"Tay or caffee?" she asked, affecting the dialect which was her lawful heritage, adding quickly: "Say caffee—we have no tay."
"Caffee it is then," said he, struggling to be genial through his fog of melancholy gray.
Viney came with the coffee and went back for the pie. When she arrived with this she stood close by Hartwell's elbow, wiping the rim of the plate around carefully with her apron. Then she put the pie down before him and fell back a step, but to reach again and slide it clear of the other plates, a full arm's length from the diner. Another retreat to gather the effect, and another shift of the plate, this time bringing it into the middle distance, where she allowed it to stand. It was if she maneuvered for the artistic distance, in which the fat slice of apple pie would be most appealing to the appetite of a man after it had been dulled by the charge of cabbage and beef.
"The board's going to put Sallie McCoy back in the school," she said.
"So they told me a little while ago."
"Well, I don't care," sighed Yiney. Then, hastily: "You know they hired me to take the primary grades in her place."
"No, I hadn't heard."
"I don't care, though. I've got thirteen music pupils and I'd 'a' had to given—gave—them up.
