Dicky rose stiffly, walked slowly around to my side of the table, and gravely tapped my head in imitation of a phrenologist.

“Absolute depression where the bump called ‘sense of humor’ ought to be.  Too bad!  Pretty creature, too.  Cause her lots of trouble, in the days to come,” he chanted solemnly.

Then he bent and kissed me.  “Don’t be a goose, Madge,” he admonished, “and never, never take me seriously.  I don’t know the meaning of the word.  Come on, let’s eat the thing-um bob.  I’ll bet it’s delicious.”

He uncovered the casserole and regarded the steaming contents critically.  “Smells scrumptious,” he announced.  “What’s in the other?  Potatoes au gratin?” as he took off the cover of the other serving dish.  “Good!  One of my favorites.”

He piled a liberal portion on any plate and helped himself as generously.  He ate heartily of both dishes, ignoring or not noticing that I scarcely touched either dish.

For I was fast lapsing into one of the moods which my little mother used to call my “morbid streaks” and which she had vainly tried to cure ever since I was a tiny girl.

Dicky didn’t like my cooking!  He was only pretending!  Dicky was disappointed in the way I received the announcement of his present!  Probably he soon would find me wanting in other things.

As I took our plates to the kitchen and brought on a lettuce and tomato salad with a mayonnaise dressing over which I had toiled for an hour, I was trying hard to choke back the tears.

When I brought on the baked apples which I had prepared with especial care for dessert, Dick gave them one glance which to my oversensitive mind looked disparaging.  Then he pushed back his chair.

“Don’t believe I want any dessert today.  The rest of the dinner was so good I ate too much of it.  Eat yours and I’ll undo your surprise.”

“Whatever in the world?” I began as Dicky lifted the lid and revealed a big Angora cat.  Then my voice changed.  “Why, Dicky, you don’t mean—­” But Dicky was absorbed in lifting the cat out.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he said admiringly.  But I was almost into the dining room.

“I suppose she is,” I replied faintly, “but surely you do not intend her for me?”

“Why not?” Dicky’s tone was sharper than I had ever heard it.  He set the cat down on the floor and she walked over to me.  I pushed her away gently with my foot as I replied: 

“Because I dislike cats—­intensely.  Besides, you know cats are so unsanitary, always carrying disease—­”

“Oh, get out of it, Madge,” Dicky interrupted.  “Forget that scientific foolishness you absorbed when you were school ma’aming.  Besides, this cat is a thoroughbred, never been outside the home where she was born till now.  Do you happen to know what this gift you are tossing aside so nonchalantly would have cost if it hadn’t been given me by a dear friend?  A cool two hundred, that’s all.  It seems to me you might try to get over your prejudices, especially when I tell you that I am very fond of cats and like to see them around.”