Page:Our Little Girl (1923).pdf/23

 Mrs. Loamford took no retaliatory measures. She had become hardened to her husband’s habit of concocting puns when there was nothing to be said, and this pun had become almost traditional.

“Elliott is coming tonight,’ Mrs. Loamford resumed, “We must have his advice. As I see it, it’s a question of whether we shall find a new piano teacher for Dorothy or whether we shall have her take singing Iessons.”

“Do you really want her to take singing lessons?” inquired Loamford.

“How many times have I told you that?” demanded his wife. “She has a remarkable natural voice. There’s no use going over that again. And she’s at the right age to start studying seriously if she’s going to get anywhere.”

Loamford carefully shoved the ashes from his cigar and moved over to a little desk where he kept the family account books, over which he worked every night, although there was no necessity for these labors. During the day he was head accountant for the Cosmopolitan Bonding Company. His thoroughness, accuracy and originality had carried him far in his work, and his chief interest in life was figures—unless one considered travel lectures an interest in life. Whenever domestic discussions reached a point where he could contribute less than usual he would retreat to his little desk in the parlor and begin to check up the grocer’s book with a small, miraculously sharp pencil.

“Oh, well,” concluded Mrs. Loamford, “I suppose it’s no use trying to tell you anything. If I were Dorothy’s father, I’d show some interest in my daughter’s career!”

“But you’re not,” murmured Loamford, turning about with a mirthless grin, and sniffing a bit as was his custom whenever he thought he had made a singularly felicitous