“This” was the ceremonial blond front, which had somehow come unpinned in the mêlée, and was now floating mermaid-wise in a few inches of ice-water at the bottom of the pitcher.
Mrs. Hudson sniffed, fished out her crimps, and flapped them scornfully.
“I leave this house to-morrow,” she remarked. “Children are all very well in their place!”
“It wasn’t my place,” contradicted Ernie, wrathfully. “I slipped on the top step and tobogganed!”
“Ernestine!” rebuked mother. “I trust you are not hurt,” she continued, turning to Mrs. Bo-gardus, who stood beside the newel-post, ruefully rubbing an elbow.
“Not being a Christian Scientist, nor yet a gutta-percha image, I confess to a few bruises,” returned that lady, spitefully; after which she and Mrs. Hudson swept on their way upstairs, leaving us at gaze.
“As if I meant to,” brooded Ernestine. “I’m not a Christian Scientist, myself. Why couldn’t they get out of the way, I’d like to know? and—who’s Mrs. Bogardus, anyhow?”
For the first time the question was presented to us squarely. We gaped at one another, like so many goldfish.
“That is so,” admitted Miss Brown in a timid voice, after a moment of deep thought. “Who is she?”
“And it couldn’t have been a rubber-plant,” chirped Bobsie with sudden easy confidence, “because then there wouldn’t be any rhyme.”