Our Aunt Esta strode fiercely after him, only littler. Our Aunt Esta is very little.
The Rich Man waved his arms at everything,—the boxes,—the bundles,—the angel-wings,—the cloaks,—the suits,—the Chinese Lanterns.
"All the same, the thing is perfectly outrageous!—The size of it!—The extent! No house would hold it!"
"It isn't meant," said our Aunt Esta, "to be played just in the house.—It's meant to be played on a sunny porch opening out on a green lawn—so that there's plenty of room for all Posie's little playmates to go swarming in and out."
The Rich Man looked queer. He gave a little shiver.
"My little daughter Posie hasn't got any playmates," he said. "She's too cross."
Our Aunt Esta stood up very straight. Two red spots flamed in her cheeks.
"You won't be able to keep the children away from her," she said, "after they once begin to play this game!"
"You really think so?" cried the Rich Man.
Out in the kitchen my Father looked at my Mother. My Mother looked at my Father. They both looked at us. My Father made a little chuckle.