Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr. Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist. Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and seven years respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnly and surveyingly while she was presented to their father.
“Can you skin a weasel?” asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned to him.
“Mother said you were a young lady,” said Billy. “You’re just a little girl like Doris was.”
“And you’ve got on her clothes,” declared Betty sagely.
“Now you surely should feel at home,” declared Mrs. Kingdon.
“Margaret,” commented her husband whimsically, “our children seem to be quite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in their remarks, don’t you think?”
“We so seldom have visitors up here, you know,” defended the mother, smiling at Pen the while. “We will go into the dining room now.”
Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a most willing welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that the vacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified by Betty who asked with a pout:
“Why don’t we wait for Uncle Kurt?”
“He dined an hour ago and rode away,” explained Mrs. Kingdon. “He will be back before your bedtime.”