Yet Mrs. Baron’s conduct might have been accepted as that of one who begins the tutelage of an adopted daughter. Had their mother jumped to the conclusion that Bonnie May had come to live with them permanently, and was she willing to contemplate such an arrangement?
Beneath their small talk, therefore, they were indulging in decidedly wild hopes and fancies.
When the family were about to leave the table, Mrs. Baron called the housekeeper. The others appeared not to notice particularly, but secretly they were all attention.
Said Mrs. Baron:
“Mrs. Shepard, this little girl’s name is Bonnie May. She is to stay with us this evening. Will you see that the spare room in the attic is made ready? and if you can add to her comfort in any way, I’m sure you will.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mrs. Shepard. The good, simple creature was trying to hide her amazement. The child had been a guest at the table—and she was to be put up in the attic to sleep! The attic was really a third floor; but it was used mainly for storing things, and for the houseman’s quarters. She regarded Bonnie May briefly—and her eyes twinkled! The child was smiling at her amiably.
“Mother!” was Flora’s hesitating remonstrance, and Victor paid such studious heed to the folding of his napkin that it was evident he was trying to hide his discomfort. In a moment he spoke—quite casually: “I’m afraid it will be lonesome up there for her, mother. Suppose you let her have my room to-night. I won’t mind giving it up.”
“Nonsense! There’s no need of your being disturbed.” Mrs. Baron’s forehead was still creased by menacing horizontal lines.
The guest interposed. The family was rising, and she stood with her back to the table. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Baron,” she said evenly, “I’ll go back and make friends with Mrs. Shepard. You know I dearly love the people who take the—the character parts. They’re usually so comfortable!”
“Well, run along.” She tried not to speak impatiently. She felt that there was general disapproval of her mood.