“You’re short on sense, Sheila,” she said.  “You’re kind of dippy ... going out to look at the stars and drawing pictures of that Hidden Creek trash.  But you’ll learn better, maybe.”

“Wait a minute, Babe!” Sheila was sober again and not unpenitent.  “I’m coming down with you.  I want to tell your father that Dickie was sweet to me.  I don’t want him to—­to—­what was it he was going to do to-morrow?”

“Bawl Dickie out.”

“Yes.  I don’t want him to do that.  It sounds awful.”

“Well, it is.  But it won’t hurt Dickie any.  He’s used to it.”

Babe, forgiving and demonstrative, here forgot the insult to Millings and Jim Greely, put her arm round Sheila, and went down the stairs, squeezing the smaller girl against the wall.

“I guess I won’t go with you to see Poppa,” she said, stopping at the top of the last flight.  “Poppa’s kind of a rough talker sometimes.”

Sheila looked rather alarmed.  “You mean you think he—­he will bawl me out?”

“I wouldn’t wonder.”  Babe smiled, showing a lump of putty-colored chewing-gum between her flashing teeth.

Sheila stood halfway down the stairs.  She had not yet quite admitted to herself that she was afraid of Sylvester Hudson and now she did admit it.  But with a forlorn memory of Dickie, she braced herself and went slowly down the six remaining steps.  The parlor door was shut and back of it to and fro prowled Sylvester.  Sheila opened the door.

Hudson’s face, ready with a scowl, changed.  He came quickly toward her.

“Well, say, Miss Sheila, I am sure-ly sorry—­”

Sheila shook her head.  “Not half so sorry as I am, Mr. Hudson.  I came down to apologize.”

He pulled out a chair and Sheila sat down.  Sylvester placed himself opposite to her and lighted a huge black cigar, watching her meanwhile curiously, even anxiously.  His face was as quiet and sallow and gentle as usual.  Sheila’s fear subsided.

“You came down to apologize?” repeated Hudson.  “Well, ma’am, that sounds kind of upside down to me.”

“I behaved like a goose.  Your son hadn’t done or said anything to frighten me.  He was sweet.  I like him so much.  He was coming home and saw me walking off alone, and he thought that I might be lonely or frightened or fall into the snow—­which I did”—­Sheila smiled coaxingly; “I went down up to my neck and Dickie pulled me out and was—­lovely to me.  It wasn’t till I was halfway down the hill that I—­that it came to me, all of a sudden, that—­perhaps—­he’d been drinking—­”

“Perhaps,” said Sylvester dryly.  “It’s never perhaps with Dickie.”

Sheila’s eyes filled.  For a seventeen-year-old girl the situation was difficult.  It was not easy to discuss Dickie’s habit with his father.

“I am so—­sorry,” she faltered.  “I behaved absurdly.  Just because I saw that he wasn’t quite himself I ran away from him and made a scene.  Truly, Mr. Hudson, he had not said or done anything the least bit horrid.  He’d been sensible and nice and friendly—­Oh, dear!” For she saw before her a relentless and incredulous face.  “You won’t believe me now, I suppose!”