irresponsible imitations of Pavlova.

None of this subtlety, this psycho-analysis and fellowship of the arts,
was evident to the Applebys. They didn't understand the problem, "Why
is a Miss Mitchin?" All that they knew, as they dragged weary joints
down the elm-rustling road and back to the bakery on Main Street, was
that Miss Mitchin's caravanserai was intimidatingly grand--and very
busy.

They were plodding out of town again when Mother exclaimed, "Why,
Father, you forgot to get your cigarettes."

"No, I-- Oh, I been smoking too much. Do me good to lay off."

They had gone half a mile farther before she sighed: "Cigarettes don't
cost much. 'Twouldn't have hurt you to got 'em. You get 'em the very
next time we're in town--or send Katie down. I won't have you denying--"

Her voice droned away. They could think of nothing but mean economies as
they trudged the wide and magic night of the moors.

When they were home, and the familiar golden-oak chairs and tidies
blurred their memory of Miss Mitchin's crushing competition, Father
again declared that no dinky tea-pot inn could permanently rival
Mother's home-made doughnuts. But he said it faintly then, and more
faintly on the days following, for inactivity again enervated him--made
him, for the first time in his life, feel almost old.

CHAPTER VI

Apparently the Applebys' customers had liked "The T Room" well
enough--some of them had complimented Mrs. Appleby on the crispness of
her doughnuts, the generousness of her chicken sandwiches. Those who had
quarreled about the thickness of the bread or the vagueness of flavor in
the tea Father had considered insulting, and he had been perky as a
fighting-sparrow in answering them. A good many must have been pleased,
for on their trip back from Provincetown they returned, exclaimed that
they remembered the view from the rose-arbor, and chatted with Father
about the roads and New York and fish. As soon as the first novelty of
Miss Mitchin's was gone, the Applebys settled down to custom which was
just large enough to keep their hopes staggering onward, and just small
enough to eat away their capital a few cents a day, instead of giving
them a profit.

In the last week of July they were visited by their daughter Lulu--Lulu
the fair, Lulu the spectacled, Lulu the lily wife of Harris Hartwig, the
up-to-date druggist of Saserkopee, New York.

Lulu had informed them two weeks beforehand that they were to be honored
wit