Mrs. Brewster unpinned her skirt and smoothed it down; and smiled at Pinky, all unconscious that she looked like a plump, pink Sister of Mercy with that towel bound tightly about her hair.  With a swift movement Pinky unpinned the towel, unwound it, dabbed with it tenderly at her mother’s chin and brow, rolled it into a vicious wad, and hurled it through the open doorway.

“Now just what does that mean?” said Mrs. Brewster, equably.  “Take off your hat and coat, Pinky, but don’t treat them that way—­unless that’s the way they’re doing in New York.  Everything is so informal since the war.”  She had a pretty wit of her own, Mrs. Brewster.

Of course Pinky laughed then, and kissed her mother and hugged her hard.  “It’s just that it seems so idiotic—­your digging around in an attic in this day and age!  Why, it’s—­it’s—­” Pinky could express herself much more clearly in colours than in words.  “There is no such thing as an attic.  People don’t clean them any more.  I never realized before—­this huge house.  It has been wonderful to come back to, of course.  But just you and dad.”  She stopped.  She raised two young fists high in impotent anger.  “Do you like cleaning the attic?”

“Why, no.  I hate it.”

“Then why in the world—­”

“I’ve always done it, Pinky.  And while they may not be wearing attics in New York, we haven’t taken them off in Winnebago.  Come on up to your room, dear.  It looks bare.  If I’d known you were coming—­the slip covers—­”

“Are they in the box in the attic labelled ’Slp Cov Pinky Rm’?” She succeeded in slurring it ludicrously.

It brought an appreciative giggle from Mrs. Brewster.  A giggle need not be inconsistent, with fifty years, especially if one’s nose wrinkles up delightfully in the act.  But no smile curved the daughter’s stern young lips.  Together they went up to Pinky’s old room (the older woman stopped to pick up the crumpled towel on the hall floor).  On the way they paused at the door of Mrs. Brewster’s bedroom, so cool, so spacious, all soft grays and blues.

Suddenly Pinky’s eyes widened with horror.  She pointed an accusing forefinger at a large, dark object in a corner near a window.  “That’s the old walnut desk!” she exclaimed.

“I know it.”

The girl turned, half amused, half annoyed.  “Oh, mother dear!  That’s the situation in a nutshell.  Without a shadow of doubt there’s an eradicable streak of black walnut in your gray-enamel make-up.”

“Eradicable!  That’s a grand word, Pinky.  Stylish!  I never expected to meet it out of a book.  And, fu’thermore, as Miz’ Merz would say, I didn’t know there was any situation.”

“I meant the attic.  And it’s more than a situation.  It’s a state of mind.”

Mrs. Brewster had disappeared into the depths of her clothes closet.  Her voice sounded muffled.  “Pinky, you’re talking the way they did at that tea you gave for father and me when we visited New York last winter.”  She emerged with a cool-looking blue kimono.  “Here.  Put this on.  Father’ll be home at twelve-thirty, for dinner, you know.  You’ll want a bath, won’t you, dear?”