, he was called sulky; if he disputed her, he was called
flippant; if he agreed with her, she accused him of fraud; and if he
obeyed his natural instincts, and treated her with tolerant
good-humour, she usually went on a conversation strike, and never
weakened until after the twelfth apology. Whatever he did was wrong,
so that purely on speculation, he grinned, and said what came to his
tongue.

"Maybe so," said Henry, "maybe so, but conscience is a plant of slow
growth," and immediately after he had said this, he wished that he had
chosen a different epigram--something which wasn't so liable to come
back at him, later, like a boomerang.

"Humph!" said Aunt Mirabelle. "It is, is it? Well, if I was in your
place, I'd be impatient for it to grow faster."

Henry shook his head. "No, I don't believe you would. I've read
somewhere that impatience dries the blood more than age or sorrow." He
assumed an air of critical satisfaction. "The bird that wrote that had
pretty good technique, don't you think?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "All right, Henry. Be pert. But I know
what made you so almighty anxious to sneak off on this house-party;
and I know whose account it was you went on, too, and I don't see for
the _life_ of me why your uncle hasn't put his foot down." She sighed,
as though in deep mourning. "I did hope you'd grow up different from
these other boys, Henry, but you're all of you just alike. When you
get old enough, do you pick out some pure, innocent, sensible, young
woman that's been trained the way girls were trained in _my_ day? No.
You go and make fools of yourselves over these short-skirted little
hussies all powdered up like a box of marshmallows. And as long as
they're spry enough _and_ immodest enough to do all these new bunny
dances and what not, you think that's a sure sign they'll make good
wives and mothers. Humph. Makes me sick."

In spite of himself, Henry lost his artificial grin, and began to turn
dull red. "I wouldn't go quite so far as to say that."

"Well," retorted Aunt Mirabelle, "I didn't hardly expect you would.
But you'll go far enough to _see_ one of 'em, I notice.... Well, your
uncle's home this afternoon; long's he's paying your bills, you might
have the grace to go in and say howdy-you-do to him." She marched
upstairs, and Henry, revolving his hat in his hand, gazed after her
until she was out of sight. He stood, irresolute, until the echo of
her common-sense shoes died into silence;