Billy dropped her hands and lifted her head. By heroic effort she pulled her face into sobriety—all but her eyes—and announced:
“Mary Jane is—a man.”
“Wha-at?”
“A man!”
“Billy!”
Three masculine forms sat suddenly erect.
“Yes. Oh, Uncle William, I know now just how you felt—I know, I know,” gurgled Billy, incoherently. “There he stood with his pink just as I did—only he had a brown beard, and he didn't have Spunk—and I had to telephone to prepare folks, just as you did. And the room—the room! I fixed the room, too,” she babbled breathlessly, “only I had curling tongs and hair pins in it instead of guns and spiders!”
“Child, child! what are you talking about?” William's face was red.
“A man!—Mary Jane!” Cyril was merely cross.
“Billy, what does this mean?” Bertram had grown a little white.