"Yes," I said, "his name's Laird—Gordon Laird."
"Goodness me!" exclaimed my mother, "but you've made good progress. I hope you didn't call him Gordon. How old is he?"
"I don't know," I retorted, treating the thrust with silence, "and I don't care—I don't care anything about him. You know I'm not much on preachers—and anyhow, I'm going to the theatre to-night with Charlie. But I took all this trouble for your sakes," I went on in a rather injured tone; "I didn't suppose you'd want to coop anybody like him up at the top of the house. But I don't care," I concluded vehemently.
My Aunt Agnes was at the window. "They're coming," she announced, without turning her head. "Your Uncle Henry certainly should have sent Moses for that valise—and he certainly is tall."
Mother by this time was at the window too. "He isn't any taller than Mr. Giddens," she pronounced, after a little silence.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I said, a trifle petulantly, for they both seemed to have forgotten I was there.
"Really I hardly know," my aunt began reflectively; "it does seem hardly the thing to——"
"There's no use talking about it," my mother broke in; "it's too late to make any change now. And anyhow, Henry wouldn't like it, I'm sure—he'd think it wasn't fair to the elder."
"Sacred to the memory of the elder from Pollocksville," chanted my aunt solemnly.
"All right," I said, reaching towards the mantel for the pitcher, "just as you like. He's not my guest—and I'm going for the cream."