Mother uttered a faint cry. She was eating soup in the dining-room. I thought perhaps something disagreeable had got into the soup. "A hair?" I asked. "No." Mother poured another spoonful of soup into her mouth as if nothing had happened. This accomplished, she turned her head to one side, directed her gaze at the cherry tree in full bloom outside the kitchen window and, her head still averted, fluttered another spoonful of soup between her lips. Mother eats in a way so unlike the manner prescribed in women's magazines that it is no mere figure of speech in her case to use the word "flutter."