When the evening of the party arrived, there was some difficulty as to the transit of William to his place of entertainment. The house was so near to the hotel where the Browns were staying that a taxi seemed hardly worth while. But there was a general reluctance to be his escort.
Ethel was going to a theatre, and Robert had been out all day and thought he deserved a bit of rest in the evening, instead of carting kids about, Mrs. Brown’s rheumatism had come on again, and Mr. Brown wanted to read the evening paper.
William, sleek and smooth, and brushed and encased in his Eton suit, his freckled face shining with cleanliness and virtue, broke meekly into the discussion.
“I know the way, mother. Can’t I just go myself?”
Mrs. Brown wavered.
“I don’t see why not,” she said at last.
“If you think that boy can walk three yards by himself without getting into mischief——” began Mr. Brown.
William turned innocent, reproachful eyes upon him.
“Oh, but look at him,” said Mrs. Brown; “and it isn’t as if he didn’t want to go to the party. You want to go, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, mother,” said William, meekly.