"No," said Monona, inflection up, chin the same. She was affecting
indifference to, this scene, in which her soul delighted. She twisted
her head, bit her lips unconcernedly, and turned her eyes to the remote.

There emerged from the fringe of things, where she perpetually hovered,
Mrs. Deacon's older sister, Lulu Bett, who was "making her home with
us." And that was precisely the case. _They_ were not making her a
home, goodness knows. Lulu was the family beast of burden.

"Can't I make her a little milk toast?" she asked Mrs. Deacon.

Mrs. Deacon hesitated, not with compunction at accepting Lulu's offer,
not diplomatically to lure Monona. But she hesitated habitually, by
nature, as another is by nature vivacious or brunette.

"Yes!" shouted the child Monona.

The tension relaxed. Mrs. Deacon assented. Lulu went to the kitchen. Mr.
Deacon served on. Something of this scene was enacted every day. For
Monona the drama never lost its zest. It never occurred to the others to
let her sit without eating, once, as a cure-all. The Deacons were
devoted parents and the child Monona was delicate. She had a white,
grave face, white hair, white eyebrows, white lashes. She was sullen,
anaemic. They let her wear rings. She "toed in." The poor child was the
late birth of a late marriage and the principal joy which she had
provided them thus far was the pleased reflection that they had produced
her at all.

"Where's your mother, Ina?" Mr. Deacon inquired. "Isn't she coming to
her supper?"