"Mittie, there's a spot of grease on your sleeve," said Mrs. Trevor, perhaps not anxious to discuss the respective merits of her sister and brother-in-law.
"So there is," assented Mittie. "And here's another. I can't think why spots of grease come. Don't you like Uncle Harvey too, mother? He's got such a nicey sort of way of doing things, and he always looks kind. He doesn't never frown, you know—does he?"
"Doesn't ever, you mean. Uncle Harvey will frown if you talk bad grammar."
"No, he won't. He hasn't got that kind of pucker on his forehead like Aunt Julia has got when she's cross. Most men have got big puckers, and he hasn't. His forehead is as smooth as yours, mother."
"Well, Mittie! How do you do, Francesca?" Harvey's voice said, as he came in, Julia clinging to his arm with an upturned face of brilliant happiness, undeniably handsome at that moment. Mittie flung herself on him with a little shriek of delight, but bounded off at his kiss, exclaiming—
"Don't scrub! I hate moustaches!" and Francesca extended a hand graciously, without troubling herself to rise.
"So you have had a dismal time of it on the whole," she said.
"Not worse than I have had!" murmured Julia.
"Foolish child!" he said softly.
"Only two days short of a fortnight. It has seemed endless."