"I'm coming, too," said Uncle Titus, over his newspaper, with his eyes over his glasses.
"That's good," said Hazel, simply, least surprised of any of the conclave.
"And you'll have to play the muffin man. 'O, don't you know,'"—she began to sing, and danced two little steps toward Mr. Oldways. "O, I forgot it was Sunday!" she said, suddenly stopping.
"Not much wonder," said Uncle Titus. "And not much matter. Your Sunday's good enough."
And then he turned his paper right side up; but, before he began really to read again, he swung half round toward them in his swivel-chair, and said,—
"Leave the sugar-plums to me, Hazel; I'll come early and bring 'em in my pocket."
"It's the first thing he's taken the slightest notice of, or interest in, that any one of us has been doing," said Agatha Ledwith, with a spice of momentary indignation, as they walked along Bridgeley Street to take the car.
For Uncle Titus had not come to the Ledwith party. "He never went visiting, and he hadn't any best coat," he told Laura, in verbal reply to the invitation that had come written on a square satin sheet, once folded, in an envelope with a big monogram.
"It's of no consequence," said Mrs. Ledwith, "any way. Only a child's play."
"But it will be, mother; you don't know," said Helena. "She's going right in everywhere, with that ridiculous little invitation; to the Ashburnes and the Geoffreys, and all! She hasn't the least idea of any difference; and just think what the girls will say, and how they will stare, and laugh! I wish she wasn't my cousin!"