"Num, num, nummy-num!" sang the child Monona loudly, and was hushed by
both parents in simultaneous exclamation which rivalled this lyric
outburst. They were alone at table. Di, daughter of a wife early lost to
Mr. Deacon, was not there. Di was hardly ever there. She was at that
age. That age, in Warbleton.
A clock struck the half hour.
"It's curious," Mr. Deacon observed, "how that clock loses. It must be
fully quarter to." He consulted his watch. "It is quarter to!" he
exclaimed with satisfaction. "I'm pretty good at guessing time."
"I've noticed that!" cried his Ina.
"Last night, it was only twenty-three to, when the half hour struck," he
reminded her.
"Twenty-one, I thought." She was tentative, regarded him with arched
eyebrows, mastication suspended.
This point was never to be settled. The colloquy was interrupted by the
child Monona, whining for her toast. And the doorbell rang.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Deacon. "What can anybody be thinking of to call
just at meal-time?"
He trod the hall, flung open the street door.
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