My father stopped short when he saw me. 'By the Lord!' he ejaculated.
'Why, George!'
My mother was on the stairs.
'Well, by the Great Guns then—you’re a—a vision, Marty.' I could only grin.
'Here’s some more pinkness for you to wear,' he said, producing a long tissue-paper package that he had been holding behind his back. He chuckled as he unwrapped it. 'Twelve, Marty; twelve solid pink carnations. What do you say to 'em? Show your mother.'
I said nothing. I only jiggled on my toes.
'George, dear, what made you? A little child like that can’t wear flowers—and they’re seventy-five cents a dozen!'
All the chuckle went out of my father’s eyes: he looked at me, then at the carnations, then at my mother, just like a little boy who finds that after all he’s done the wrong thing. I wanted to run and take his hand; but while I stood, wanting and not daring, my mother had crossed the hall and was putting her arms around his neck.
'They’re beautiful, George dear. She can wear three or four of them, anyway. They will make her so happy, and the rest we’ll put in her room. Her room is pink too.'
'So it is.' He kissed my mother and then me. 'Say your piece, Marty—quick! Before we have supper.'