“No!” said Billy, whispering, and glancing suspiciously at the house. “Not blue! Please don’t! It—it’s dangerous.”
“Oh, but it is a dream of a waist!” said Kitty. “You wait until you see it.”
“No!” pleaded Billy again. “Not a blue one! If you wore a blue one I couldn’t help but notice it was blue. It isn’t safe. Don’t wear a blue one, or a green one, or a brown one. Just a white one. Not any other color; just white. You see,” he said with sudden confidentiality, “I’m a detective. I’m detecting for Tom. I told him I would, and I’ve got to keep my word. He has a notion someone is smuggling things into the house without paying the duty, and he got me to detect at you for him. We’re suspicious about your clothes. There’s a white waist, and this pink waist, already, and if you go to wearing blue ones and all sorts of colors, I can’t help but notice it. I don’t want to get you into trouble with Tom, you know.” He hesitated a moment and then said, “You helped me out about those cigars.”
“All right!” said Kitty, cheerfully, “I’ll wear a white one, but I think you might be color blind if you really want to help me.”
VIII
THE FIELD OF DISHONOR
There was a train from the city at 6:02, and Tom was not likely to be home on one earlier. At 5:48 Kitty and Billy and Mrs. Fenelby were sitting on the porch, and Bobberts was lying in a tilted-back rocking chair, behaving himself. It was a calm and peaceful suburban scene—the stillness and the loneliness and the mosquitoes were all present. It was the idle time when no one cares whether time flies or halts. Mrs. Fenelby had the table set and the cold dinner ready; Kitty was primped; and Billy should have had nothing in the world to do, but he had been opening and closing his watch every minute for the last half hour. He was uneasy. At 5:48 he arose and stretched out his arms.