We had been gone such a short time that no one seemed to have missed us. Professor Green was still on the subject of initiative and referendum, and Mrs. Green had just finished a thrilling tale of art students' life in Paris when we sank on the bench beside them. Dee was shaking like an aspen, although she still insisted there was nothing the matter.
"Zebedee, Dee must go home immediately. She is sick, I believe."
"Dee sick?" and he sprang to his feet. "What's the matter with you, honey? Where do you feel sick? What hurts you?"
"Nothing! Oh, nothing!" and poor Dee's overwrought nerves snapped and she went off into as nice a fit of hysterics as one could find outside of a big boarding-school for girls.
"Dee, Dee, please tell me what is the matter!" begged her frantic father.
"She can't talk, but I can! She must go home and be put to bed. She has had too much excitement for one day."
"Where have you and she just been?" rather sternly, while Dee sobbed on with occasional giggles, Mrs. Brown and Dum taking turns patting her.
"We have been back to the custard-colored house," I faltered.
"Oh, you little geese! What did you want there, please?"
"Dee could not sleep until she knew the rope was cut from the chandelier. We went back to cut it down."