Paul looked rather surprised, but wisely refrained from arguing the point, and the meal proceeded without any further unpleasantness. Paul refused to touch turnip, and informed his mother in a low voice that he hated baked custard, but if Grandma heard, she made no remark.
“May we take Paul up-stairs, Grandma?” Dulcie inquired, eagerly, as they rose from the table. “Perhaps he would like to play lotto.”
“Yes, I suppose you may as well,” answered Mrs. Winslow, who evidently had her doubts as to how Paul would endure the usual evening routine in the dining-room. “What time does he go to bed, Julia?”
“Eight o’clock precisely,” her daughter answered, “but I think he had better go a little earlier to-night. He must be tired from the journey. Go up-stairs with the children, darling, and Mother will call you in half an hour.”
“Now we’ve really got you to ourselves at last,” said Dulcie, joyfully, as they all went up-stairs together. “We’ve been talking about your coming ever since your mother’s letter came last week. You see, we felt as if we knew you; we’ve heard so much about you.”
Paul looked interested. “What sort of things have you heard about me?” he inquired.
“Oh, about how clever you are; how you learned to read the Bible when you were so little, and could say all your tables when you were five, and—oh, lots of interesting things.”
Paul grinned.
“I’m not very clever,” he admitted condescendingly. “Mother likes to tell people I am, but I’m not really. I read a good many books, but I’d much rather play with the boys in the streets, only Mother won’t let me. She’s afraid I’ll catch some disease. I’ve had measles and mumps, and chickenpox, but I’ve got to have scarlet fever and diphtheria yet, and Mother’s terribly afraid of those two. Is this your room, and do you all sleep here together?”
Dulcie admitted that they did, and Daisy added cheerfully, as she turned up the gas: