“Sweet of you to come,” Mrs. Spear murmured, her eyes wandering absently while she clung to Lily’s hand. “Do you like our little changes? Of course, really you did the whole thing—aren’t the tulips heavenly, if I do say so myself? You know my little Dorothy, don’t you? Just think, Dotty, Miss Lily used to live here when she was a little girl like you, and maybe some day she’ll tell you all about what she used to do then—won’t that be exciting?”
“Would you like to hear all about what I did when I was a little girl like you, darling?” Lily asked in a voice dripping with honey.
“No-o.”
“Dorothy! If you can’t speak politely to Mother’s friends, you can go up to Fraulein! Now stop kicking the grass with your pretty new slippers—Dorothy—and take Miss Lily’s hand and show her where the refreshments are, that’s Mother’s big girl!”
So Lily had some more café frappé. And while she was eating it she gave such a jump that she spilled a spoonful down her front. There was Victor! She was pretty sure he didn’t want her to see him; she knew she didn’t want him to see her. And it made her sad to see him there, a guest in the home that should have been his own.
She puffed off to the house as fast as she could go. People were swarming like bees in a hive. “Just poke around,” urged Mrs. Spear, hurrying past. “See what we’ve done upstairs—”
She didn’t want to look into the bathroom, but something pushed her, pulled her. How changed—it was a blue and silver fairy tale of a bathroom now! The crackling copper-lined tub was gone, and a white porcelain one was in its place. And here was the room where she and Maggie and May used to sleep when they were small. The place where Victor did the decalcomania goose, upside down to make it funnier, all the dark brown wood, was painted over, the walls and soft chairs were pink, the bed and dressing table were all pink ruffles. She was like a bee in the heart of a rose. How changed—
The white fur rugs, the pink walls, blurred and faded. Three little girls in round combs and striped stockings played together in the pool of yellow sunlight on the floor. Her mouth jerked, she fumbled for her handkerchief, but they did not look at her as she stood in the doorway.
XXIX
Fannie Page tilted the side of her face to her husband’s casual kiss, as she went on reading her letters. “Frances says little Francie’s been chosen to be Wild Rose in the school play,” she told him across his fence of newspaper. “She’s making her a costume of pink and green crêpe paper—seems to me studying’s the last thing they think of in school nowadays. Elizabeth says as far as she can see the twins never do anything but model in clay and sing folk-songs. Let’s see. Both Freddie’s front teeth are out. Poor little fellow, how funny he must look! What’s the matter with your canteloupe, dear? Isn’t it good? I told that man—”
“Where’s Pren?”
“He had breakfast earlier. He’s going to Springfield with the Bangs boys, I only hope they don’t break down and have to be towed home again. I told him I’d tell you he’d taken the automobile, I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“Well, I do mind.”
“No, you don’t.” She heaved her violet billows out of her chair, and came around to kiss the bald place on the top of his head. She must remember to get him some more hair tonic—not that it seemed to do much good.
“Have another cup of coffee—of course, it won’t hurt you. Mary, ask Ella for some hot waffles.”
“Here’s about my speech at the banquet, Fannie.”
“Mmm—”
“Well, if you aren’t interested—”
“What? Oh, darling, I am, intensely interested!”
“What in?” he asked suspiciously.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Prentice, I wasn’t listening, I was reading a letter from Margery, and guess who she’s met! Victor Campion! Did you ever? Listen—
“ ‘Betty and I went to a dinner before a dance at the Century Club, I wore my candleshade—’ ”
“Her what?”
“Oh, her pink dress with the crystal fringe—let’s see—‘and split the skirt again—’
“Tc! Why will they try to dance in hobble skirts? Wait, where is it that she tells about Victor?
“ ‘I had something aged but sprightly on one side of me, named Mr. Victor Campion. When I say sprightly, I mean he’s the kind that’s still begging for a rosebud; and one of the other men told me at the dance that after dinner he told them the world’s mildest limerick about a split skirt that he evidently considered absolutely devilish. He was pretty old for the party, but Betty says everybody uses him for filling in, though the debutantes groan when they get next him; and, of course, he’s not exactly thrilling. She says he’s a regular town institution, you haven’t properly come out until Mr. Campion comes to your tea and says ‘What charming blossoms and what still more charming buds!’ You’ll see he really is old when I tell you he says he knew you when you were a girl—Well!”
“A polite daughter you have!”
“Now, Prentice, of course, we seem a thousand to those young things—just a lit‑tle bit of egg on your chin, darling!
“ ‘He seemed inclined to give me a rush at the dance—and, oh, Mother, his idea of the Boston! Hop is no word for it! He’s much worse than Daddy. But a perfect peach from Princeton who was on my other side came to my rescue—’
“Prentice, why do you suppose
