“Of course I’m sure,” was the response.
They were admitted by a tall, overgrown girl of thirteen, who beamed with pleasure when she saw Meg. “Come into the sitting-room,” she said; “Papa’s in there, and he will be so glad to see you.”
“Why, what’s he doing at home in the middle of the day?” Meg asked.
“He’s not feeling very well—just indigestion, he says,” answered the child, leading the way.
The room they entered was forlorn in the extreme, and in it was everywhere evidence of the taste of the wife, as well as of her notably poor housekeeping. There was dirt in the corners of the room, and dust on the few uncomfortable, cheap, but ornate chairs. There was a rug with big bouquets of red roses upon the floor, and soiled, sleazy, fringed silk drapes hung over the few highly colored, gaudily framed pictures. The wall paper was as startling as the rug, and at the windows were coarse, cheap lace curtains.
Charlie Walker was a huge, broad-shouldered blond, with kind blue eyes, a roaring laugh which always made his refined wife shudder, and a hand-clasp that was warm and cordial.
He looked so pleased when he saw Meg, that it was plain to see how well he liked her. As for the child, who had inherited her father’s size, blondness, and disposition, she evidently regarded her small, grown-up cousin as a veritable princess in a fairy tale.
Meg noticed with concern that Charlie really looked ill, but it was a habit with her to say but little about such things; so, instead of questioning him fully, she looked around the untidy room and asked, “Where’s Ada?”
“Gone to her card club,” replied Charlie.
The child, Gertie, had taken up the mending-basket and was painfully trying to darn a large hole in one of her father’s socks. It was evident that she had had no training, but was trying to teach herself, that she might assume that part of the household tasks.