Our Aunt Esta swallowed.
"They are my—my Demonstrators," she said.
"'Demonstrators?'" sniffed the Rich Man. He glared at Carol. "Why don't you speak?" he demanded.
My mother made a rustle to the door-way.
"He can't," she said. "Our son Carol is dumb."
The Rich Man looked very queer.
"Oh, I say," he fumbled and stuttered. "Oh, I say—! After all there's no such great harm in a giggle. My little girl Posie cries all the time. All the time, I mean! Cries and cries and cries!—It's a fright!"
"She wouldn't," said our Aunt Esta, "if she had a game like this to play with."
"She could wear the Witch's hideous cape!" said our Aunt Esta. "And the queer pointed black hat! And the scraggly gray wig! And the great horn-rimmed spectacles! And the hump on her back! And——"