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.

II

MAY

Lulu was dusting the parlour. The parlour was rarely used, but every
morning it was dusted. By Lulu.

She dusted the black walnut centre table which was of Ina's choosing,
and looked like Ina, shining, complacent, abundantly curved. The leather
rocker, too, looked like Ina, brown, plumply upholstered, tipping back a
bit. Really, the davenport looked like Ina, for its chintz pattern
seemed to bear a design of lifted eyebrows and arch, reproachful eyes.

Lulu dusted the upright piano, and that was like Dwight--in a perpetual
attitude of rearing back, with paws out, playful, but capable, too, of
roaring a ready bass.

And the black fireplace--there was Mrs. Bett to the life. Colourless,
fireless, and with a dust of ashes.

In the midst of all was Lulu herself reflected in the narrow pier
glass, bodiless-looking in her blue gingham gown, but somehow alive.
Natural.

This pier glass Lu