Silence reigned, save for the murmur of voices down-stairs—far, indistinct.
The hall was glorious with indirect rays of the sun. It had wonderful spaciousness, too. Bonnie May gazed down the broad stairway, duskily bright and warm and silent, and her expression was quite blissful. She turned and looked up to the landing above—reached by a narrower flight of stairs. It seemed splendidly remote, and here the sunlight fell in a riotous flood.
Her sensations must have been something akin to those of a mocking-bird that inspects the vernal world in May. She released the folds of the nightgown and “paraded” to and fro in the hall, looking back over her shoulder at the train. She had put the garment on again, after Flora’s advent with the gingham dress, primarily for the purpose of making the journey from her room to her bath. But there had been a distinct pleasure in wearing it, too. She thought it made her look like a fairy queen. She felt the need of a tinsel crown and a wand with a gilded star at its end.
She was executing a regal turn in the hall when her glance was attracted upward to some moving object on the landing above.
A most extraordinary ancient man stood there watching her.
Realizing that he had been discovered, he turned in a kind of panic and disappeared into regions unknown. His mode of locomotion was quite unusual. If Bonnie May had been familiar with nautical terms she would have said that he was tacking, as he made his agitated exit.
As for Bonnie May, she scampered into the bathroom, the flowing train suddenly gripped in her fingers.
Down-stairs they were listening for her, though they pretended not to be doing so. They heard her in the bathroom; later they heard movements in her bedroom. And at last she was descending the stairs leisurely, a care-free song on her lips.
She invaded the dining-room. Mr. Baron had been lingering over his coffee. The various parts of the morning paper were all about him.
“Good morning,” was Bonnie May’s greeting. She nodded brightly. “I hope I’m not intruding?”