Mrs. Sullivan's
response, though audible only to her mistress, who was compelled to cock
an intent ear toward the kitchen, seemed to be in some manner shuffling
or evasive.
"What's _that_?" she exclaimed sharply, listening again. Then, with
dignity, "Well, if you _don't_ hurry, I'll have to come right in there
and see to you this minute!"
The threat happily availed, and the feast went forward, a phantom and
duly apologetic Mrs. Sullivan serving us with every delicacy which our
imaginations afforded. When we had eaten to repletion, of and from the
checkers which were our plates and food as well, Mrs. Judge Robinson
suddenly became Irene, who had eaten too much and had to be scolded and
put to bed. The lights were out, the revelry done.
"Going walking now?" asked my namesake. He did not know how to behave at
tea-parties, and, sitting at a little distance from us, he had been
aiming an imaginary gun at every fat robin that mined the lawn for
sustenance.
"Ask your father if you may go," I said. I had heard Solon pacing his
room--forever cogitating the imminent Potts. I did not enter the house
oftener than I could help, for always in those rooms I felt a troubled
presence, a homesick thing that pushed two frail white hands against an
intangible but sufficing curtain that held it from those it sickened
for.
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