"He'll _hate_ it!" spoke Blanche, with conviction; "he'll abhor it,
just as we do. I know he will." Blanche always followed her sister's
lead, and when Norma was cross considered it her duty to be tearful.
She was only disagreeable now because Norma was.

Percival, the youngest of the family, a spoiled and lively lad of
twelve, to whom the prospect of change was rapture, took up the last
remark indignantly.

"Nesbit won't do anything of the kind," quoth he. "Nesbit isn't a
spoiled, airified idiot of a girl. He's got sense enough to appreciate
hunting and fishing and the things that are of importance to _men_. I
guess he'll want to come to Shirley this autumn for his shooting,
instead of going down to North Carolina." Norma stopped her tattoo and
turned her head slightly; the boy, observing that he had scored a
point, proceeded: "Just the minute he gets back from Montana, I'm going
to tell him all about Shirley and beg him to come. And if he does, I'm
going gunning with him every day, and make him teach me how to
shoot--see if I don't," regarding his mother from under his tawny brows
threateningly. Percival's nature was adventurous and unruly: he had
red hair.

"Nesbit got back last night," announced Warner from his sofa beside the
other window. "I saw him pass the house this morning. There he is
now, coming up the street. If his opinion is a matter of such
importance, you can call him over and get it. I don't see that it
makes any difference what he thinks, myself." The latter part of the
sentence was muttered in an unheeded undertone.