“Did you say it had not come home yet? You must be sure to have it on time. Take all your party clothes along, too.”
“Oh, yes, I’m going to,” said Mrs. Atwood. She was on sure ground here. The gown she had had made for a wedding in the spring was crying to be worn again.
“What color did you decide on?”
“I—I decided on—brown,” said Mrs. Atwood with fixed eyes. Her respite was gone.
“Brown—yes, I always liked you in brown. Have you heard your mother talk much about her new clothes, Josephine?”
“No,” said Josephine, “I haven’t.”
“Didn’t you wear brown when we went on our wedding trip? It seems to me that I remember that. I know you had red berries in your hat, for I knocked some of them out.”
“Were you married in a brown dress?” called Sam.
“No,” answered the father for her, “your mother was married in white—some kind of white mosquito-netting. What makes you look so unhappy, Jo? Aren’t you glad to go off with me—in a new suit?”
“Edward!” said Mrs. Atwood. She rose and stood in front of him, her dark eyes unnaturally large, the color coming and going in her rounded olive cheek. Her red lips trembled. Here, before the loved and dreaded domestic tribunal she would be shriven at last. Her children should know just what she was like. “Edward! I have something to tell you.”