Suddenly Pinky's eyes widened with horror. She pointed an accusing
forefinger at a large dark object in a corner near a window. "That's the
old walnut desk! she exclaimed.
"I know it."
The girl turned, half amused, half annoyed. "Oh, mother dear! That's
the situation in a nutshell. Without a shadow of doubt, there's an
eradicable streak of black walnut in your grey-enamel make-up."
"Eradicable! That's a grand word, Pinky. Stylish! I never expected to
meet it out of a book. And fu'thermore, as Miz' Merz would say, I didn't
know there was any situation."
"I meant the attic. And it's more than a situation. It's a state of
mind."
Mrs. Brewster had disappeared into the depths of her clothes closet. Her
voice sounded muffled. "Pinky, you're talking the way they did at that
tea you gave for father and me when we visited New York last winter."
She emerged with a cool-looking blue kimono. "Here. Put this on.
Father'll be home at twelve-thirty, for dinner, you know. You'll want a
bath, won't you, dear?"
"Yes. Mummy, is it boiled--honestly?--on a day like this?"
"With onions," said Mrs. Brewster firmly.
Fifteen minutes later Pinky, splashing in a cool tub, heard the voice of
Miz' Merz, high-pitched with excitement and a certain awful joy: "Miz'
Brewster! Oh, Miz' Brewster! I found a moth in Mr. Brewster's winter
flannels!"
"Oh!" in choked accents of fury from Pinky; and she brought a hard young
fist down in the water--spat!--so that it splashed ceiling, hair and
floor impartially.
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