“A good many of mamma’s stitches in that dress to keep clean,” Ina called after.

“Early, darling, early!” her father reminded her.  A faint regurgitation of his was somehow invested with the paternal.

“What’s this?” cried Dwight Herbert Deacon abruptly.

On the clock shelf lay a letter.

“Oh, Dwight!” Ina was all compunction.  “It came this morning.  I forgot.”

“I forgot it too!  And I laid it up there.”  Lulu was eager for her share of the blame.

“Isn’t it understood that my mail can’t wait like this?”

Dwight’s sense of importance was now being fed in gulps.

“I know.  I’m awfully sorry,” Lulu said, “but you hardly ever get a letter——­”

This might have made things worse, but it provided Dwight with a greater importance.

“Of course, pressing matter goes to my office,” he admitted it.  “Still, my mail should have more careful——­”

He read, frowning.  He replaced the letter, and they hung upon his motions as he tapped the envelope and regarded them.

“Now!” said he.  “What do you think I have to tell you?”

“Something nice,” Ina was sure.

“Something surprising,” Dwight said portentously.

“But, Dwight—­is it nice?” from his Ina.

“That depends.  I like it.  So’ll Lulu.”  He leered at her.  “It’s company.”

“Oh, Dwight,” said Ina.  “Who?”

“From Oregon,” he said, toying with his suspense.

“Your brother!” cried Ina.  “Is he coming?”

“Yes.  Ninian’s coming, so he says.”

“Ninian!” cried Ina again.  She was excited, round-eyed, her moist lips parted.  Dwight’s brother Ninian.  How long was it?  Nineteen years.  South America, Central America, Mexico, Panama “and all.”  When was he coming and what was he coming for?

“To see me,” said Dwight.  “To meet you.  Some day next week.  He don’t know what a charmer Lulu is, or he’d come quicker.”

Lulu flushed terribly.  Not from the implication.  But from the knowledge that she was not a charmer.

The clock struck.  The child Monona uttered a cutting shriek.  Herbert’s eyes flew not only to the child but to his wife.  What was this, was their progeny hurt?

“Bedtime,” his wife elucidated, and added:  “Lulu, will you take her to bed?  I’m pretty tired.”

Lulu rose and took Monona by the hand, the child hanging back and shaking her straight hair in an unconvincing negative.

As they crossed the room, Dwight Herbert Deacon, strolling about and snapping his fingers, halted and cried out sharply: 

“Lulu.  One moment!”

He approached her.  A finger was extended, his lips were parted, on his forehead was a frown.

“You picked the flower on the plant?” he asked incredulously.

Lulu made no reply.  But the child Monona felt herself lifted and borne to the stairway and the door was shut with violence.  On the dark stairway Lulu’s arms closed about her in an embrace which left her breathless and squeaking.  And yet Lulu was not really fond of the child Monona, either.  This was a discharge of emotion akin, say, to slamming the door.