"Now we're going to Adele's," he remarked, as Mother gathered up her gloves and purse.
"Oh, Sunny Boy!" Mrs. Horton surveyed him half laughingly, half with despair. "You musn't call her Adele. Say Mrs. Kennedy. You never call Mother's friends by their first names, you know you don't."
"Well, I don't know her," offered Sunny Boy mildly, as though that made a difference.
They took a bus, which never lost its charm for Sunny, and after a rather long ride, got out at a cross street and walked until they reached a narrow, five-storied brick house with gay window boxes at every window. A maid opened the door for them and showed them into a pleasant, rather small room where a little girl sat at the grand piano, practicing.
She glanced up shyly as Mrs. Horton and Sunny Boy came in.
"I'm sure I know who you are," smiled Mrs. Horton. "You must be Alice."
The little girl got up and made a pretty curtsy.
"I'm Alice Kennedy," she said, smiling too. "Are you Mother's friend, Mrs. Horton? Is he your little boy?"
Mrs. Kennedy came in as Mrs. Horton nodded, and there was a great showering of kisses and many questions asked and ever so many introductions, for two small boys followed Mrs. Kennedy in and they were presented as her sons, Dick and Paul.
"Now you and I'll go upstairs where it is cozier," said Mrs. Kennedy, when every one knew every one else, "and the children shall take Sunny Boy up to their playroom on the top floor."