WAFFLES AND DEWLAPS

The June Holiday Home was one of those sumptuous stations where indigent gentlewomen assemble to await the coming of the last train.

Breakfast was always served precisely at seven o’clock, and certain dishes appeared as regularly as the days.  This was waffle morning on the Home calendar; outside it was known as Thursday.

The eyes of the “new lady” wandered beyond the dining-room and followed a young girl, all in pink.

“Who is that coming up the walk?”

Fourteen faces turned toward the wide front window.

Miss Castlevaine was quickest.  Her answer did not halt the syrup on its way to her plate.

“That’s Polly Dudley.”

“Oh!  Dr. Dudley’s daughter?”

“Yes.  She’s come over to see Miss Sterling.  They’re very intimate.”

“Miss Sterling?” mused Miss Mullaly, with a sweeping glance round the table.  “I don’t believe I’ve seen her.”

“Yes, you have.  She was down to tea last night.  She had on a light blue waist, and sat over at the end.”

“Oh, I remember now!  She’s little and sweet-looking.  Somebody told me she had nervous prostration.  Too bad!  She is so young and pretty!”

A tiny sneer fluttered from face to face, skipping one here and there in its course.  It ended in Miss Castlevaine’s “Huh!”

“I think Miss Sterling is real pretty!” Miss Crilly, from the opposite side, beamed on the “new lady.”

“She has faded dreadfully,” asserted Mrs. Crump.  “They used to call her handsome years ago, though she never was my style o’ beauty.  But now—­” She shook her head with hard emphasis.

“She has been through a good deal,” observed Mrs. Grace mildly.

“No more’n I have!” was the retort.  “If she’d stop thinking about herself and eat like other folks, she’d be better.”

“Nervous prostration patients have to be careful about their diet, don’t they?” ventured Miss Mullaly.

“She hasn’t got it!” snapped Mrs. Crump.

“She thinks she has.”  Miss Castlevaine’s thick lips curved in a smile of scorn.

“If she can’t digest things, it won’t do her much good to eat them,” interposed Miss Major positively.  “Nobody could digest these waffles—­they’re slack this morning.”

Miss Castlevaine gave her plate a little push.  “I wish I needn’t ever see another waffle,” she fretted.

“Oh!” exclaimed the “new lady,” “I don’t understand how anybody can get tired of waffles!”

“Nor I!” laughed Miss Mullaly’s right-hand neighbor.  “I shall have to tell you about the time I went to Cousin Dorothy’s wedding luncheon.