They made much of her coming, rejoiced over her and kissed her as if she never had even in thought neglected them, and exulted innocently in the marvelous delights of her new life.  Georgie was driven over from the Mission by her husband, the next day, in Susan’s honor, and carried the fat, loppy baby in for so brief a visit that it was felt hardly worth while to unwrap and wrap up again little Myra Estelle.  Mrs. Lancaster had previously, with a burst of tears, informed Susan that Georgie was looking very badly, and that, nursing that heavy child, she should have been spared more than she was by the doctor’s mother and the old servant.  But Susan, although finding the young mother pale and rather excited, thought that Georgie looked well, and admired with the others her heavy, handsome new suit and the over-trimmed hat that quite eclipsed her small face.  The baby was unmanageable, and roared throughout the visit, to Georgie’s distress.

“She never cries this way at home!” protested young Mrs. O’Connor.

“Give her some ninny,” Mrs. Lancaster suggested, eagerly, but Georgie, glancing at the street where Joe was holding the restless black horse in check, said nervously that Joe didn’t like it until the right time.  She presently went out to hand Myra to Susan while she climbed into place, and was followed by a scream from Mrs. Lancaster, who remarked later that seeing the black horse start just as Susan handed the child up, she had expected to see them all dashed to pieces.

“Well, Susan, light of my old eyes, had enough of the rotten rich?” asked William Oliver, coming in for a later dinner, on the first night of her visit, and jerking her to him for a resounding kiss before she had any idea of his intention.

“Billy!” Susan said, mildly scandalized, her eyes on her aunt.

“Well, well, what’s all this!” Mrs. Lancaster remarked, without alarm.  William, shaking out his napkin, drawing his chair up to the table, and falling upon his dinner with vigor, demanded: 

“Come on, now!  Tell us all, all!”

But Susan, who had been chattering fast enough from the moment of her arrival, could not seem to get started again.  It was indeed a little difficult to continue an enthusiastic conversation, unaffected by his running fire of comment.  For in these days he was drifting rapidly toward a sort of altruistic socialism, and so listened to her recital with sardonic smiles, snorts of scorn, and caustic annotations.

“The Carters—­ha!  That whole bunch ought to be hanged,” Billy remarked.  “All their money comes from the rents of bad houses, and—­ let me tell you something, when there was a movement made to buy up that Jackson Street block, and turn it into a park, it was old Carter, yes, and his wife, too, who refused to put a price on their property!”

“Oh, Billy, you don’t know that!”

“I don’t?  All right, maybe I don’t,” Mr. Oliver returned growlingly to his meal, only to break out a moment later, “The Kirkwoods!  Yes; that’s a rare old bunch!  They’re still holding the city to the franchise they swindled the Government out of, right after the Civil War!  Every time you pay taxes—­”