With a warning “Sh-h!” and an expressive glance toward the hall, Mr. Smith tried to stop further revelations; but Benny was not to be silenced.
“They’re rich—awful rich—the Pennocks are,” he confided still more huskily. “An’ there’s a girl—Gussie. She’s gone on Fred. He’s my brother, ye know. He’s seventeen; an’ Bess is mad ’cause she isn’t seventeen, too, so she can go an’ play tennis same as Fred does. She’ll be madder ’n ever now, if Mell goes auto-riding with Carl, an’—”
“Sh-h!” So imperative were Mr. Smith’s voice and gesture this time that Benny fell back subdued.
At once then became distinctly audible again the voices from the other room. Mr. Smith, forced to hear in spite of himself, had the air of one who finds he has abandoned the frying pan for the fire.
“No, dear, it’s quite out of the question,” came from beyond the door, in Mrs. Blaisdell’s voice. “I can’t let you wear your pink. You will wear the blue or stay at home. Just as you choose.”
“But, mother, dear, it’s all out of date,” wailed a young girl’s voice.
“I can’t help that. It’s perfectly whole and neat, and you must save the pink for best.”
“But I’m always saving things for best, mother, and I never wear my best. I never wear a thing when it’s in style! By the time you let me wear the pink I shan’t want to wear it. Sleeves’ll be small then—you see if they aren’t—I shall be wearing big ones. I want to wear big ones now, when other girls do. Please, mother!”
“Mellicent, why will you tease me like this, when you know it will do no good?—when you know I can’t let you do it? Don’t you think I want you to be as well-dressed as anybody, if we could afford it? Come, I’m waiting. You must wear the blue or stay at home. What shall I tell him?”
There was a pause, then there came an inarticulate word and a choking half-sob. The next moment the door opened and Mrs. Blaisdell appeared. The pink spots in her cheeks had deepened. She shut the door firmly, then hurried through the room to the hall beyond. Another minute and she was back in her chair.