Immediately a stentorian howl raised blood-curdling echoes and resounded horribly through the house.  It was obvious that Clematis intended to make a scene, whether he was present at it or not.  He lifted his voice in sonorous dolor, stating that he did not like the cellar and would continue thus to protest as long as he was left in it alone.  He added that he was anxious to see Flopit and considered it an unexampled outrage that he was withheld from the opportunity.

Smitten with horror, William reopened the door and charged down the cellar stairs after Clematis, who closed his caitiff mouth and gave way precipitately.  He fled from one end of the cellar to the other and back, while William pursued; choking, and calling in low, ferocious tones:  “Good doggie!  Good ole doggie!  Hyuh, Clem!  Meat, Clem, meat—­”

There was dodging through coal-bins; there was squirming between barrels; there was high jumping and broad jumping, and there was a final aspiring but baffled dash for the top of the cellar stairs, where the door, forgotten by William, stood open.  But it was here that Clematis, after a long and admirable exhibition of ingenuity, no less than agility, submitted to capture.  That is to say, finding himself hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic.

Grimly the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen, where the cook cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who was not present.  Through the back yard went captor and prisoner, the latter now maintaining a seated posture—­his pathetic conception of dignity under duress.  Finally, into a small shed or tool-house, behind Mrs. Baxter’s flower-beds, went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic manner.  The instant the door slammed he lifted his voice—­and was bidden to use it now as much as he liked.

Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as he passed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of one who looks upon miracles.

William halted fiercely.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.  “Is my face dirty?”

“You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?” Adelia asked, slowly.  “No, suh; you look all right to go in there.  You lookin’ jes’ fine to go in there now, Mist’ Willie!”

Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his blood was up—­he would not turn back now.  He strode into the hall and opened the door of the “living-room.”

Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.

She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer to his wild gaze she said: 

“I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while.  She’s lookin’ for you all over the house.  She told papa she don’t know what in mercy’s name people are goin’ to think about you, Willie.”