“Now, Willie,” said Mrs. Baxter, gently, “you’d better go up and brush your hair again before your friends come.  You mustn’t let yourself get so excited.”

“‘Excited!’” he cried, incredulously.  “Do you think I’m excited?  Ye gods!” He smote his hands together and, in his despair of her intelligence, would have flung himself down upon a chair, but was arrested half-way by simultaneous loud outcries from his mother and Jane.

“Don’t sit on the cakes!” they both screamed.

Saving himself and the pan of wafers by a supreme contortion at the last instant, William decided to remain upon his feet.  “What do I care for the cakes?” he demanded, contemptuously, beginning to pace the floor.  “It’s the question of principle I’m talking about!  Do you think it’s right to give the people of this town a poor name when strangers like Miss Pratt come to vis—­”

“Willie!” His mother looked at him hopelessly.  “Do go and brush your hair.  If you could see how you’ve tousled it you would.”

He gave her a dazed glance and strode from the room.

Jane looked after him placidly.  “Didn’t he talk funny!” she murmured.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Baxter.  She shook her head and uttered the enigmatic words, “They do.”

“I mean Willie, mamma,” said Jane.  “If it’s anything about Miss Pratt. he always talks awful funny.  Don’t you think Willie talks awful funny if it’s anything about Miss Pratt, mamma?”

“Yes, but—­”

“What, mamma?” Jane asked as her mother paused.

“Well—­it happens.  People do get like that at his age, Jane.”

“Does everybody?”

“No, I suppose not everybody.  Just some.”

Jane’s interest was roused.  “Well, do those that do, mamma,” she inquired, “do they all act like Willie?”

“No,” said Mrs. Baxter.  “That’s the trouble; you can’t tell what’s coming.”

Jane nodded.  “I think I know,” she said.  “You mean Willie—­”

William himself interrupted her.  He returned violently to the doorway, his hair still tousled, and, standing upon the threshold, said, sternly: 

“What is that child wearing her best dress for?”

“Willie!” Mrs. Baxter cried.  “Go brush your hair!”

“I wish to know what that child is all dressed up for?” he insisted.

“To please you!  Don’t you want her to look her best at your tea?”

“I thought that was it!” he cried, and upon this confirmation of his worst fears he did increased violence to his rumpled hair.  “I suspected it, but I wouldn’t ‘a’ believed it!  You mean to let this child—­you mean to let—­” Here his agitation affected his throat and his utterance became clouded.  A few detached phrases fell from him:  “—­Invite my friends—­children’s party—­ye gods!—­think Miss Pratt plays dolls—­”

“Jane will be very good,” his mother said.  “I shouldn’t think of not having her, Willie, and you needn’t bother about your friends; they’ll be very glad to see her.  They all know her, except Miss Pratt, perhaps, and—­” Mrs. Baxter paused; then she asked, absently:  “By the way, haven’t I heard somewhere that she likes pretending to be a little girl, herself?”