Cissy's mother went into the hall with the card in her hand, and a look of gentle surprised inquiry on her face. There, on the doorstep was Mrs. Baker, with a young and hopeful but sadly damaged Wedgwood tagging behind her, like a weak-minded punt in tow of an ancient threedecker.
"'LOOK AT HIM, MADAM,' SAID MRS. BAKER."
The injured lady began at once a voluble complaint.
"Look at him, madam. That is the handiwork of your daughter. The poor boy was quietly digging in the garden, cultivating a few unpretending flowers, when your daughter, madam, suddenly flew at him over the railings and struck him on the face so furiously that, if I had not come to the rescue, the dear boy might have lost the use of both his eyes. But most happily I heard the disturbance and went out and stopped her."
"Dear me, this is very sad," faltered little Mrs. Carter; "I'm sure I don't know what can have come over Cissy. Are you sure there is no mistake?"
"Mistake! No, indeed, madam, there is no mistake, I saw her with my own eyes—a great girl twice Wedgwood's size."
At this point Mr. Davenant Carter came to the door with his table-napkin in his hand.
"What's this—what's this?" he demanded in his quick way—"Cissy and your son been fighting?"