Miss India made no exception that morning to her general rule, and Holly presided over the coffee cups. The table was rather large, and although Winthrop’s place was in the middle, facing the open door onto the back porch, there was quite an expanse of emptiness between him and his hostess. Through the door and across the bridge to the kitchen Phœbe trotted at minute intervals to bring fresh relays of hot biscuits and buckwheat cakes. The dining-room was rather shabby. The walls were papered in dark brown, and the floor was covered with linoleum. A mahogany sideboard, which took up quite ten feet of one end of the room, looked sadly out of its element. Three pictures in tarnished gilt frames hung by thick green cords very close to the ceiling, so that Winthrop was spared the necessity of close examination, something which they did not invite. But for all its shabbiness there was something comfortable about the room, something homey that made the old dishes with their chipped edges and half-obliterated ornamentation seem eminently suitable, and that gave Winthrop a distinct sensation of pleasure. He found that, in spite of his previous uncertainty, he was very hungry, and, although he had hard work to keep from grimacing over the first taste of the coffee, he ate heartily and enjoyed it all. And while he ate, Holly talked. Sometimes he slipped in a word of comment or a question, but they were not necessary so far as Holly was concerned. There was something almost exciting for her in the situation. To have an audience who was quite fresh and sympathetic was an event in her life, and there are so many, many things one has to say at eighteen. And Winthrop enjoyed it almost as much as Holly. Her _naive_ views of life amused even while they touched him. She seemed very young for her age, and very unsophisticated after the Northern girls Winthrop knew. And he found her voice and pronunciation charming, besides. He loved the way she made “I” sound like “Ah,” the way she narrowed some vowels and broadened others, her absolute contempt for the letter “r.” The soft drawl of Southern speech was new to him, and he found it fascinating. Once Holly stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence, laid her left hand palm downwards on the edge of the table and struck her knuckles sharply with the handle of her knife. “What’s the matter?” inquired Winthrop, in surprise. “Punishment,” answered Holly, gravely, the chastised hand held against her lips. “You see there are three words that Auntie doesn’t like me to use, and when I do use them I rap my knuckles.” “Oh,” smiled Winthrop, “and does it help?” “I don’t reckon it’s helped much yet,” said Holly, “but maybe it will. It sure does hurt, though.” “And may I ask what the words are?” “One is ‘Fiddle.’ Does that sound very bad to you?” “N-no, I think not. What does it signify, please?” “Oh, you just say ‘Fiddle’ when――when something happens you don’t like.”