“‘Families is nix,’ I says.  ‘I got my own fam’ly to look out fur,’ I says.  Like that.  ‘Well,’ s’s he, ‘w’en it comes to that,’ s’s he, ’I guess I got some—­’” Punctuated by thumps, spatterings, swashings, and much heavy breathing, so that the sound of light footsteps along the second-floor hallway, a young, clear voice calling, then the same footsteps, fleeter now, on the attic stairway, were quite unheard.

* * * * *

Pinky’s arms were around her mother’s neck and for one awful moment it looked as if both were to be decapitated by the trunk lid, so violent had been Mrs. Brewster’s start of surprise.

Incoherent little cries, and sentences unfinished: 

“Pinky!  Why—­my baby!  We didn’t get your telegram.  Did you—­”

“No; I didn’t.  I just thought I—­Don’t look so dazed, mummy—­You’re all smudged, too—­what in the world!” Pinky straightened her hat and looked about the attic.  “Why, mother!  You’re—­you’re house cleaning!” There was a stunned sort of look on her face.  Pinky’s last visit home had been in June, all hammocks, and roses, and especially baked things, and motor trips into the country.

“Of course.  This is September.  But if I’d known you were coming—­Come here to the window.  Let mother see you.  Is that the kind of hat they’re—­why, it’s a winter one, isn’t it?  Already!  Dear me, I’ve just got used to the angle of my summer one.  You must telephone father.”

Miz’ Merz, damply calicoed, rose from a corner and came forward, wiping a moist and parboiled hand on her skirt.  “Ha’ do, Pinky.  Ain’t forgot your old friends, have you?”

“It’s Mrs. Merz!” Pinky put her cool, sweet fingers into the other woman’s spongy clasp.  “Why, hello, Mrs. Merz!  Of course when there’s house cleaning—­I’d forgotten all about house cleaning—­that there was such a thing, I mean.”

“It’s got to be done,” replied Miz’ Merz, severely.

Pinky, suddenly looking like one of her own magazine covers (in tailor clothes), turned swiftly to her mother.  “Nothing of the kind,” she said, crisply.  She looked about the hot, dusty, littered room.  She included and then banished it all with one sweeping gesture.  “Nothing of the kind.  This is—­this is an anachronism.”

“Mebbe so,” retorted Miz’ Merz with equal crispness.  “But it’s got to be cleaned just the same.  Yessir; it’s got to be cleaned.”

They smiled at each other then, the mother and daughter.  They descended the winding attic stairs happily, talking very fast and interrupting each other.

Mrs. Brewster’s skirt was still pinned up.  Her hair was bound in the protecting towel.  “You must telephone father.  No, let’s surprise him.  You’ll hate the dinner—­built around Miz Merz; you know—­boiled.  Well, you know what a despot she is.”

It was hot for September, in Wisconsin.  As they came out to the porch Pinky saw that there were tiny beads of moisture under her mother’s eyes and about her chin.  The sight infuriated her somehow.  “Well, really, mother!”