caressingly, “and drink Burgundy, Burgundy, Burgundy!”
“Please take me with you, Louie,” Mrs. St. Peter pleaded, to distract him from his wife.
Nothing made the McGregors so uncomfortable and so wrathful as the tender moments which sometimes overtook the Marselluses in public.
“We are going to take you, and Papa too. That’s our plan. I take him for safety. If I travelled on the Continent alone with two such handsome women, it wouldn’t be tolerated. There would be a trumped-up quarrel, and a stiletto, and then somebody would be a widow,” turning again to his wife.
“Come here, Louie.” Mrs. St. Peter beckoned him. “I have a confession to make. I’m afraid there’s no dinner for you tonight.”
“No dinner for me?”
“No. There’s nothing either you or Godfrey will like. It’s Scott’s dinner tonight. Your tastes are so different, I can’t compromise. And this is his, from the cream soup to the frozen pudding.”
“But who said I didn’t like cream soup and frozen pudding?”
Louie held out his hands to show their guiltlessness. “And are there haricots verts in cream sauce? I thought so! And I like those, too. The truth is, Dearest,” he stood before her and tapped her chin with his finger, “the truth is that I like all Scott’s dinners, it’s he who doesn’t like mine! He’s the intolerant one.”
“True for you, Louie,” laughed the Professor.
“And it’s that way about lots of things,” said Louie a little plaintively.