It was a dull house; so dull that Edith made up her mind to get out of it for her next winter at Fern Hill. When she went home for the Easter vacation, she expressed decided opinions: "Father, once, ages ago"—she was sitting on her father's knee, and tormenting him by trying to take his cigar away from him—"you got off something about the dinner of herbs and Eleanor's stalled ox—"
"Good heavens, Buster! You haven't said that before Eleanor?"
"Ha! I got a rise out of you!" Edith said, joyfully; "I haven't mentioned it, yet; but I shall make a point of doing so unless you order two pounds of candy for me, at once. Well, I suppose what you meant was that Eleanor is stupid?"
"Mary," said Henry Houghton, "your blackmailing daughter is displaying a glimmer of intelligence."
"I'm only reminding you of your own remark," Edith said, "to explain why I want to be in one of the dormitories next winter. Eleanor is stupid—though she's never fed me on stalled ox! And I think she sort of doesn't like it because I'm not awfully fond of music."
"You are an absolute heathen about music," her father said.
"Well, it bores me," Edith explained, cheerfully; "though I adore Maurice's playing. Maurice is a lamb, and I adore just being in the house with him! But she's nasty to him sometimes. And when she is, I'd like to choke her!"
"Edith—Edith—" her mother remonstrated. And her father reminded her that she must not lose her temper.
"Let your other parent be a warning to you as to the horrors of an uncontrolled temper," said Henry Houghton; "I have known your mother, in one of her outbursts of fury, so far forget herself as to say, 'Oh, my!'"
Edith grinned, but insisted, "Eleanor is dull as all get out!"