"Yep. Her. Miss Drew."
Peggy's jaw dropped.
Since the sudden opening of the door, and Billy's unlooked-for entrance, events had crowded upon Peggy Falstar's horizon.
Her children had been translated. She felt desolate and stricken, although her heart glowed with pride as she viewed them from afar. In a last attempt to cling to her familiar attitude toward Maggie at least, Peggy vaguely remarked:
"I wonder if your being a girl makes you such a plain fool?"
"I 'spose it might," Maggie returned indifferently.
"Well," her mother continued, "don't you go upsetting Billy with any of your fool ideas."
"I ain't going to hurt 'im." Maggie tossed her head.
"Hurt him!" Peggy sniffed. "You lay this up for future hatching, Maggie Falstar. You, me, nor nobody ain't ever going to hurt him again and know it. What hurts he gets, from now on, he ain't going to howl about."
Just then the supposedly slumbering Billy came out of the inner room. Mother and sister eyed him critically. He was magnificently attired in all the meagre finery he could call into service. What he lacked in attire he made up in the grooming. Billy shone. Billy was plastered. Billy smelled to high heaven of soap and kerosene. But there was that about Billy which checked Maggie's ribald jeers, and the mother's question as to where he was going.