Mrs. Milo met the emergency. "Oh, yes, Dora," she said sweetly; and flashed her guest a look of warning.
"Till rehearsal," went on Dora, in a mournful sing-song, "Mr. Balcome prefers to remain on the sidewalk."
Mrs. Milo pretended not to understand. "Oh, we don't mind his cigar," she protested. "Ask him in." And as the girl trailed out, "I do hope your husband won't say anything to that child. She takes the Scriptures so—so literally."
Hattie crossed to her mother. "Shan't I carry Babette upstairs?" she asked.
"No!" Mrs. Balcome jerked rudely away.
"But she annoys father."
"Why do you think I brought her?"
"Oh!—Well, in that case, please don't let me interfere." She went out, banging a door.
"Now! Now!" pleaded Mrs. Milo, lifting entreating hands.
Balcome entered. He was a large man, curiously like his wife in type, for he had the same florid stoutness, the same rather small and pale eye. His well-worn sack suit hung on him loosely. He carried a large soft hat in one hand, and with it he continually flopped nervously at a knee. As he caught sight of the two women, he twisted his face into a scowl.