"Paint," he answered.
"No," cried Grizel, rocking her arms, "it is not paint now. I thought it might be and I tried to rub it off while she was sleeping, but it will not come off. And when she coughs there is blood on her handkerchief."
He looked alarmed now, and Grizel's fears came back. "If mamma dies," she said determinedly, "she must be buried in the cemetery."
"She is not dying, I tell you."
"And you must come to the funeral."
"Are you gyte?"
"With crape on your hat."
His mouth formed an emphatic "No."
"You must," said Grizel, firmly, "you shall! If you don't—" She pointed to the parlor-door.
Her remaining two visits were to a similar effect, and one of the gentlemen came out of the ordeal somewhat less shamefully than the first, the other worse, for he blubbered and wanted to kiss her. It is questionable whether many young ladies have made such a profound impression in a series of morning calls.