"Which one—Irene? Yes, she's home." Sissy's small round face was simplicity and candor incarnate.
"No," said old Westlake, uncomfortably. He had seen shrewdness once or twice behind the eyes where innocence now dwelt, and he only half trusted this demure, blank-faced child. "I mean your sister Katherine."
"Oh!" Cecilia exclaimed, in gentle surprise. "Oh, no, sir, she's out."
"Indeed!"
Old Westlake fancied he heard a mocking "indeed" that followed. In fact, an echo that had the queer effect of making him hear double seemed to accompany all his words. It came from the portières, which were suspiciously bulky, and shook as though something more than the wind moved them.
"And how soon will she be home?" he asked.
"Kate? You mean Kate? Oh, I really do not know." Sissy pronounced her words with pedantic care—a permissible thing among Madigans when adults were to be guyed.
Old Westlake (he was rather a handsome old fellow, with his regular features, his blond mustache, and prominent blue eyes) fidgeted uneasily. There must be some way, he felt, of moderating this half-chilly, half-critical atmosphere on the part of the smaller Madigans. But children were riddles to him, and the solutions his small experience offered were either too simple or too complex.
"She can't be intending to spend the whole day out?" he asked, conscious that he presented a ridiculous figure to the childish gray eyes lifted to his.
"No, I don't suppose she can," agreed Sissy. "Won't you come in?"