Edith sighed. She had devotedly tried to do her best for Theodore’s daughter but Alice, like her father, had been born a rebel with an individuality that would always resent any set pattern of behavior. At least, Edith comforted herself, the responsibility was not hers alone nor could she reproach herself if inherited traits were too strong. Thank goodness there was no rampant individuality in her own small daughter! Ethel was usually as placid as a Dutch housewife, though she could not be imposed upon and always stood stubbornly for her own rights.
Dinner was not quite over when two small figures appeared at the dining room door. In their nightclothes Kermit and Ethel stood there, their small feet blue with cold.
“Go back to bed quickly, you’ll catch your death of cold!” their mother scolded, herding them back toward the stairway.
“I’ll come along,” said Theodore. “I’ll just go back and find the chivalry book, as Ted calls it.”
“You spoil them,” protested his wife. “They were up before dawn this morning.”
“Early yet,” he made excuse, “only a little after eight.”
“It’s almost nine,” she corrected. “Supper was late because Christmas upset the household routine. Jump in bed, both of you. Kermit, wait—we’ll have to wipe off the bottoms of your feet. You forgot your slippers again.”
“They fall off. Anyway, they’re not so very dirty.”
“Too black for the sheets.” Mame came in then as Edith was tucking the covers around Ethel.
“They slipped out when I was back in my room,” she explained. “Kermit is always slipping out of his bed. He’d sleep under it half the time if I didn’t watch him, makes me feel like tying him into it.”