“We don’t want to buy anything,” she declared, frowning at the bag Bobby was carrying.
“We’re not selling anything––these are kittens,” Bobby explained, but without raising his voice. He didn’t know she was deaf.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Kittens!” Bobby repeated, a little more loudly. “Mr. Fritz’s kittens.”
“He wears gloves,” said the maid crossly. “And my bread is in the oven and I can’t be bothered.”
Meg stood on tiptoe and shouted.
“Is Mr. Fritz home?” she cried. 145
To her dismay a deep voice somewhere back in the house answered her.
“That he is,” it said. “Won’t you come in?” and there stood Mr. Fritz himself, looking at her curiously.
Bobby with the bag and Meg with her dress box, stepped inside and the maid closed the door. That made the hall so dark that poor Bobby, unable to see where he was going, but moving ahead blindly, walked to the basement stairs and made the most fearful clatter as he lost his balance and fell half way. He managed to catch one arm around the banister rail and check his descent, but the bag of kittens went all the way.