She looked at him in a way he had once found fascinating--her chin thrown forward, her cheeks supported by her knuckles.

Little specks of her boa fell into her untouched teacup.
"Come home with Alfred and me," she begged, with half-ashamed earnestness.

"It's band night and we might ask the Johnsons in to supper.

I've got a nice steak in the house, been hanging, and Mrs.
Cross could come in and cook it while we are out.

Mr.Johnson would sing to us afterwards, and there's your banjo.