He marched by her without
a glance.
She flushed with vexation. Mr. Deacon, as one would expect, laughed
loudly, took the situation in his elephantine grasp and pawed at it.
"Mamma! Mamma! What do you s'pose? Di thought she had a beau----"
"Oh, papa!" said Di. "Why, I just hate Bobby Larkin and the whole
_school_ knows it."
Mr. Deacon returned to the dining-room, humming in his throat. He
entered upon a pretty scene.
His Ina was darning. Four minutes of grace remaining to the child
Monona, she was spinning on one toe with some Bacchanalian idea of
making the most of the present. Di dominated, her ruffles, her blue
hose, her bracelet, her ring.
"Oh, and mamma," she said, "the sweetest party and the dearest supper
and the darlingest decorations and the gorgeousest----"
"Grammar, grammar," spoke Dwight Herbert Deacon. He was not sure what he
meant, but the good fellow felt some violence done somewhere or other.
"Well," said Di positively, "they _were_. Papa, see my favour.
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