Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back. "What do you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.
Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery duck's-tail curl—bright as a sunbeam.
"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.
Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter. "That isn't hair," she said; "it is just a sample of yellow silk."
Porter, coming up, was treated to a repetition of this remark.
"Let us thank the Gods that it isn't red," was his fervent response.
Grace's hands went up to her own lovely hair.
"Oh," she reproached him.
Porter apologized. "I was thinking of my carroty head. Yours is glorious."
"Artists paint it," Grace agreed pensively, "and it goes well with the right kind of clothes."