But no one noticed Monona, and Ina did not defer even to Dwight.  She, who measured delicate, troy occasions by avoirdupois, said brightly: 

“Now, Di.  You must tell us all about it.  Where had you and Aunt Lulu been with mamma’s new bag?”

“Aunt Lulu!” cried Dwight.  “A-ha!  So Aunt Lulu was along.  Well now, that alters it.”

“How does it?” asked his Ina crossly.

“Why, when Aunt Lulu goes on a jaunt,” said Dwight Herbert, “events begin to event.”

“Come, Di, let’s hear,” said Ina.

“Ina,” said Lulu, “first can’t we hear something about your visit?  How is——­”

Her eyes consulted Dwight.  His features dropped, the lines of his face dropped, its muscles seemed to sag.  A look of suffering was in his eyes.

“She’ll never be any better,” he said.  “I know we’ve said good-bye to her for the last time.”

“Oh, Dwight!” said Lulu.

“She knew it too,” he said.  “It—­it put me out of business, I can tell you.  She gave me my start—­she took all the care of me—­taught me to read—­she’s the only mother I ever knew——­” He stopped, and opened his eyes wide on account of their dimness.

“They said she was like another person while Dwight was there,” said Ina, and entered upon a length of particulars, and details of the journey.  These details Dwight interrupted:  Couldn’t Lulu remember that he liked sage on the chops?  He could hardly taste it.  He had, he said, told her this thirty-seven times.  And when she said that she was sorry, “Perhaps you think I’m sage enough,” said the witty fellow.

“Dwightie!” said Ina.  “Mercy.”  She shook her head at him.  “Now, Di,” she went on, keeping the thread all this time.  “Tell us your story.  About the bag.”

“Oh, mamma,” said Di, “let me eat my supper.”

“And so you shall, darling.  Tell it in your own way.  Tell us first what you’ve done since we’ve been away.  Did Mr. Cornish come to see you?”

“Yes,” said Di, and flashed a look at Lulu.

But eventually they were back again before that new black bag.  And Di would say nothing.  She laughed, squirmed, grew irritable, laughed again.

“Lulu!” Ina demanded.  “You were with her—­where in the world had you been?  Why, but you couldn’t have been with her—­in that dress.  And yet I saw you come in the gate together.”

“What!” cried Dwight Herbert, drawing down his brows.  “You certainly did not so far forget us, Lulu, as to go on the street in that dress?”

“It’s a good dress,” Mrs. Bett now said positively.  “Of course it’s a good dress.  Lulie wore it on the street—­of course she did.  She was gone a long time.  I made me a cup o’ tea, and then she hadn’t come.”

“Well,” said Ina, “I never heard anything like this before.  Where were you both?”

One would say that Ina had entered into the family and been born again, identified with each one.  Nothing escaped her.  Dwight, too, his intimacy was incredible.