Here her sister sat by an open window, repairing masculine underwear; and a handsome, shabby, dirty boy of about thirteen sprawled on the floor of the “conservatory” unloosing upon its innocent, cracked, old black and white tiles a ghastly family of snakes, owls, and visaged crescent moons, in orange, green, and other loathsome chalks.  As Cora entered from the hall, a woman of fifty came in at a door opposite, and, a dust-cloth retained under her left arm, an unsheathed weapon ready for emergency, leaned sociably against the door-casing and continued to polish a tablespoon with a bit of powdered chamois-skin.  She was tall and slightly bent; and, like the flat, old, silver spoon in her hand, seemed to have been worn thin by use; yet it was plain that the three young people in the room “got their looks” from her.  Her eyes, if tired, were tolerant and fond; and her voice held its youth and something of the music of Cora’s.

“What is he like?” She addressed the daughter by the window.

“Why don’t you ask Coralie?” suggested the sprawling artist, relaxing his hideous labour.  He pronounced his sister’s name with intense bitterness.  He called it “Cora-lee,” with an implication far from subtle that his sister had at some time thus Gallicized herself, presumably for masculine favour; and he was pleased to receive tribute to his satire in a flash of dislike from her lovely eyes.

“I ask Laura because it was Laura who went to the door,” Mrs. Madison answered.  “I do not ask Cora because Cora hasn’t seen him.  Do I satisfy you, Hedrick?”

“`Cora hasn’t seen him!’” the boy hooted mockingly.  “She hasn’t?  She was peeking out of the library shutters when he came up the front walk, and she wouldn’t let me go to the door; she told Laura to go, but first she took the library waste-basket and laid one o’ them roses——­”

“Those roses,” said Cora sharply.  “He will hang around the neighbours’ stables.  I think you ought to do something about it, mother.”

“Them roses!” repeated Hedrick fiercely.  “One o’ them roses Dick Lindley sent her this morning.  Laid it in the waste-basket and sneaked it into the reception room for an excuse to go galloping in and——­”

“`Galloping’?” said Mrs. Madison gravely.

“It was a pretty bum excuse,” continued the unaffected youth, “but you bet your life you’ll never beat our Cora-lee when there’s a person in pants on the premises!  It’s sickening.”  He rose, and performed something like a toe-dance, a supposed imitation of his sister’s mincing approach to the visitor.  “Oh, dear, I am such a little sweety!  Here I am all alone just reeking with Browning-and-Tennyson and thinking to myself about such lovely things, and walking around looking for my nice, pretty rose.  Where can it be?  Oh heavens, Mister, are you here?  Oh my, I never, never thought that there was a man here!  How you frighten me!  See what a shy little thing I am?  You do see, don’t you, old sweeticums?  Ta, ta, here’s papa.  Remember me by that rose, ’cause it’s just like me.  Me and it’s twins, you see, cutie-sugar!” The diabolical boy then concluded with a reversion to the severity of his own manner:  “If she was my daughter I’d whip her!”