"No, but she loves violets," said Tee Wee. "Made me sit up half of last night, fanning 'em for her."
"Loo, pass Charles's plate, daughter."
Carlisle surveyed the noisy table as from some lofty peak. She knew that the Cooney habit of monopolizing all conversation, and dashing straight through every topic, was only their poor-but-proud way of showing off: sometimes it was a little irritating, but to-night only rather fatiguing to the ear-drums. The children came two years apart, as regular as some kind of biannual publication; Looloo, seventeen, being the youngest, and also the best-looking and the most popular in the family. But then all the Cooneys were good-looking, including the Major, and all were popular in the family. In fact, they were more like a house-party than a family at all: and in some ways they rather resembled a queer little secret fraternity, enjoying strange delights and responding with shrieks to unintelligible catchwords.
To-night the talk was more than usually disjointed, owing to the regrettable absence of Hortense. There was constant jumping up, infinite "passing." Mr. Tee Wee, manipulating the water-pitcher from the side-table, complained aside to his mother at the universal thirst. Chas, it seemed, had charge of the heating-up of the later crops of biscuits: he kept springing off to the kitchen, now and then returning with a heaping platter of what he called his little brown beauties.
In the midst of the confusion, Hen strode in, looking somewhat defiant, and instantly drew the fires of all.
"How're the little patients, Hen? Number 9 looked pretty sick to me this--"
"Best thing I know is running 'em up and down the hall, and then brisk massage--"
"Gargled 'em yet, Hen?"
Hen, laughing wildly, stood her ground.
"That's all right!" she retorted to the last sally, which happened to be Chas's. "There are swains in this town who might boost their standing a little if only they'd patronize the florist once in a while!"