"Right," I responded, and hung up the handle. I did not wish to keep
poppa out of bed any longer than was necessary, he was already up so
much later than I was. I turned away from the instrument to go down
stairs again, and there, immediately behind me, stood momma.

"Well, really!" I exclaimed. It did not occur to me that the privacy of
telephonic communication between Chicago and New York was not
inviolable. Besides, there are moments when one feels a little annoyed
with one's momma for having so lightly undertaken one's existence. This
was one of them. But I decided not to express it.

"I was only going to say," I remarked, "that if I had shrieked it would
have been your fault."

"I knew everything," said momma, "the minute I heard him shut the gate.
I came up immediately, and all this time, dear, you've been confiding in
us both. My dear daughter."

Momma carries about with her a well-spring of sentiment, which she did
not bequeath to me. In that respect I take almost entirely after my
other parent.

"Very well," I said, "then I won't have to do it again."

Her look of disappointment compelled me to speak with decision. "I know
what you would like at this juncture, momma. You'd like me to get down
on the floor and put my head in your lap and weep all over your new
brocade. That's what you'd really enjoy. But, under circumstances like
these, I never do things like that. Now the question is, can you get