It was six when I took up my fishing-tackle and went home to supper, whistling. I found the mater in the kitchen.
"Ah," she said. "What luck, Bertram?"
"None," I replied. "The fish weren't biting."
"Oh, that's too bad. You must be tired."
"I am, and hungry. Is father home?"
"Not yet. Come, you must meet—"
But I ran up the kitchen staircase to the hall above. Safe in my room, I could hear a murmuring from Letitia's. Hers was a front room, mine a rear one, and a long hall intervened, so I made nothing of the voices.
I scrubbed and lathered till my nose was red and shining beautifully. Then I drew on my Sunday suit, in which I always stood the straighter, and my best black shoes, in which I always stamped the louder, and my highest, whitest collar, and my best light silk cravat—a Christmas present from Letitia, a wondrous thing of pale, sweet lavender, 'in which not Solomon—though it would hike up behind. It was not like other ties, and while I was struggling there I heard the supper knell. I pulled fiercely. The soft silk crumpled taut—and the bow stuck up seven ways for Sunday. So I unravelled it again—looped it once more with trembling fingers, for I heard the voices on the stairs, and jerked it into place—but what a jumble!
"Bertram! Bertram!" It was father's voice. "Supper, Bertram."
"In a minute."