A ripple of excitement was caused in the dining-room when Mr. Deacon was divined to usher some one to the parlour.  Mr. Deacon would speak with this visitor in a few moments, and now returned to his table.  It was notable how slight a thing would give him a sense of self-importance.  Now he felt himself a man of affairs, could not even have a quiet supper with his family without the outside world demanding him.  He waved his hand to indicate it was nothing which they would know anything about, resumed his seat, served himself to a second spoon of salmon and remarked, “More roast duck, anybody?” in a loud voice and with a slow wink at his wife.  That lady at first looked blank, as she always did in the presence of any humour couched with the least indirection, and then drew back her chin and caught her lower lip in her gold-filled teeth.  This was her conjugal rebuking.

Swedenborg always uses “conjugial.”  And really this sounds more married.  It should be used with reference to the Deacons.  No one was ever more married than they—­at least than Mr. Deacon.  He made little conjugal jokes in the presence of Lulu who, now completely unnerved by the habit, suspected them where they did not exist, feared lurking entendre in the most innocent comments, and became more tense every hour of her life.

And now the eye of the master of the house fell for the first time upon the yellow tulip in the centre of his table.

“Well, well!” he said.  “What’s this?”

Ina Deacon produced, fleetly, an unlooked-for dimple.

“Have you been buying flowers?” the master inquired.

“Ask Lulu,” said Mrs. Deacon.

He turned his attention full upon Lulu.

“Suitors?” he inquired, and his lips left their places to form a sort of ruff about the word.

Lulu flushed, and her eyes and their very brows appealed.

“It was a quarter,” she said.  “There’ll be five flowers.”

“You bought it?”

“Yes.  There’ll be five—­that’s a nickel apiece.”

His tone was as methodical as if he had been talking about the bread.

“Yet we give you a home on the supposition that you have no money to spend, even for the necessities.”

His voice, without resonance, cleft air, thought, spirit, and even flesh.

Mrs. Deacon, indeterminately feeling her guilt in having let loose the dogs of her husband upon Lulu, interposed:  “Well, but, Herbert—­Lulu isn’t strong enough to work.  What’s the use....”

She dwindled.  For years the fiction had been sustained that Lulu, the family beast of burden, was not strong enough to work anywhere else.

“The justice business—­” said Dwight Herbert Deacon—­he was a justice of the peace—­“and the dental profession—­” he was also a dentist—­“do not warrant the purchase of spring flowers in my home.”

“Well, but, Herbert—­” It was his wife again.