He stood at the bottom of the steep, narrow stairs, looking up, his hands thrust into his pockets, his under lip stuck out.  His eyes were unusually gentle and pensive.

“I wouldn’t ‘a’ had her scared that way for anything,” he said, “not for anything.  That’s likely to spoil all my plans.”

He swore under his breath, wheeled about, and going into the parlor he shut the door and began walking to and fro.  Babe crept rather quietly up the stairs.  There were times when even Babe was afraid of “Poppa.”

CHAPTER V

INTERCESSION

Babe tiptoed up the first flight, walked solidly and boldly up the second, and ran up the third.  She had decided to have a talk with Sheila, to soothe her indignation, and, if possible, to explain Dickie.  It seemed to Babe that Dickie needed explanation.

Sheila’s room was at the top of the house—­the very room, in fact, whose door opened on the bird cage of a balcony between two cupolas.  Babe came to the door and knocked.  A voice answered sharply:  “Come in,” and Babe, entering, shut the door and leaned against it.

It was a small, bare, whitewashed room, with a narrow cot, a washstand, a bureau, and two extraordinary chairs—­a huge one that rocked on damaged springs, enclosed in plaited leather like the case of an accordion, and one that had been a rocker, but stood unevenly on its diminished legs.  Babe had protested against Momma’s disposal of the “girl from Noo York,” and had begged that Sheila be allowed to share her own red, white, and blue boudoir below.  But Sheila had preferred her small room.  It was red as a rose at sunset, still and high, remote from Millings, and it faced The Hill.

Now, the gaslight flared against the bare walls and ceiling.  Sheila’s hat and coat and muff lay on the bed where she had thrown them.  She stood, looking at Babe.  Her face was flushed, her eyes gleamed, that slight exaggeration of her chin was more pronounced than usual.

Babe put her head on one side.  “Oh, say, Sheila, why bother about Dickie.  Nobody cares about Dickie.  He’ll get a proper bawlin’-out from Poppa to-morrow.  But I’d think myself simple to be scared by him.  He’s harmless.  The poor kid can’t half help himself now.  He got started when he was awful young.”

“Oh,” said Sheila, as sharply as before, stopping before Babe, “I’m not frightened.  I’m angry—­angry at myself.  I like Dickie.  I like him!”

Babe’s lips fell apart.  She sat down in the accordion-plaited chair and rocked.  A squealing, shaking noise accompanied the motion.  Her fingers sought and found against the chair-back a piece of chewing-gum which she had stuck there during her last visit to Sheila.  Babe hid and resurrected chewing-gum as instinctively as a dog hides and resurrects his bones.

“I can see you likin’ Dickie,” she remarked ironically.