“Nonsense!” she cried, getting quickly to her feet and bending over one of the flower boxes along the veranda railing. “Mr. Arkwright never thought of marrying me—and I'm not going to marry anybody but my music.”
Billy sighed despairingly.
“I know that's what you say now; but if—” She stopped abruptly. Around the turn of the veranda had appeared Aunt Hannah, wheeling Bertram, Jr., still asleep in his carriage.
“I came out the other door,” she explained softly. “And it was so lovely I just had to go in and get the baby. I thought it would be so nice for him to finish his nap out here.”
Billy arose with a troubled frown.
“But, Aunt Hannah, he mustn't—he can't stay out here. I'm sorry, but we'll have to take him back.”
Aunt Hannah's eyes grew mutinous.
“But I thought the outdoor air was just the thing for him. I'm sure your scientific hygienic nonsense says that!”
“They do—they did—that is, some of them do,” acknowledged Billy, worriedly; “but they differ, so! And the one I'm going by now says that Baby should always sleep in an even temperature—seventy degrees, if possible; and that's exactly what the room in there was, when I left him. It's not the same out here, I'm sure. In fact I looked at the thermometer to see, just before I came out myself. So, Aunt Hannah, I'm afraid I'll have to take him back.”
“But you used to have him sleep out of doors all the time, on that little balcony out of your room,” argued Aunt Hannah, still plainly unconvinced.