“Do you think this is a children’s party, Jawn de Lancey McGinnis?” snapped Phœbe.
“Well, isn’t it?” he stared about him. “Sure we’re all kids here. Look at Mrs. Wells.” Mrs. Wells was ready to laugh before the connundrum was even proposed, and that sudden touch sent her off. “And look at that grey-haired old kid over there!” Black George Alexander, hovering at the door, broke into African cackles. Jawn’s huge face had the native comedian power; wherever he turned it laughter sprang, except in one quarter. Phœbe Norris looked straight at him with face set and cold.
“Go on with your connundrum, man,” she commanded icily.
“Well,” he said, evidently shifting his original plan, “why is Mrs. Phœbe Norris’ face like—like—like the Tombs of the Pharaohs?”
Phœbe’s face, in turn, became the instigator to mirth. If it had been stony before, it grew steadily now into a veritable sphinx. Comment and inquiry could not dislodge her external claim.
“Why?” inquired Mrs. Wells; she was rather fond of connundrums, intelligent ones like this one, which brought in one’s knowledge of ancient history. “Why is Phœbe’s face like the Tombs of the Pharaohs?”
“The Lord only knows why,” said John solemnly; “but like the Tombs of the Pharaohs it is.”
A crinkle came to Phœbe’s eyes, and her mouth quivered.
“I’m not laughin’,” she insisted. “My face slipped.”
“And is there no other answer?” inquired Mrs. Wells.