Vertrees shook her head. "I suppose I'm very dull," she said,
gently. "I didn't see anything amusing. They're most ordinary, and
the house is altogether in bad taste, but we anticipated that, and--"
"Papa!" Mary cried, breaking in. "They asked us to DINNER!"
"What!"
"And I'm GOING!" she shouted, and was seized with fresh paroxysms.
"Think of it! Never in their house before; never met any of them
but the daughter--and just BARELY met her--"
"What about you?" interrupted Mr. Vertrees, turning sharply upon
his wife.
She made a little face as if positive now that what she had eaten
would not agree with her. "I couldn't!" she said. "I--"
"Yes, that's just--just the way she--she looked when they asked her!"
cried Mary, choking. "And then she--she realized it, and tried to
turn it into a cough, and she didn't know how, and it sounded like
--like a squeal!"
"I suppose," said Mrs. Vertrees, much injured, "that Mary will have
an uproarious time at my funeral. She makes fun of--"
Mary jumped up instantly and kissed her; then she went to the mantel
and, leaning an elbow upon it, gazed thoughtfully at the buckle of
her shoe, twinkling in the firelight.
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