Miss Kelly came in with the children, noisy and hungry, and the five had dinner together. Catherine tried to talk with Miss Kelly. Her round, light eyes met Catherine's solemnly, and she replied with calm politeness to Catherine's ventures.
"No, Marian, dear," she said suddenly. "One helping of chicken is enough for a little girl your age."
"Spencer had two!" Marian turned to her mother. "Why can't I?"
Catherine smiled a little wryly. She thrust under the sudden flash of resentment. Of course, Miss Kelly had them in charge. What was the matter with her to-day! She seemed to react with irritation to everything.
"Marian's stomach seemed a little upset yesterday," confided Miss Kelly.
"We'll have our salad now." Catherine dismissed the question.
But after dinner, when Letty had been led protestingly away for her nap, and Miss Kelly, armed with a volume of Andersen's "Fairy Tales," reappeared in the living room, Catherine couldn't resist the swift entreaty of Spencer's eyes.
"Miss Kelly," she said, placatingly, "if you would like to go home now, I can read to the children. I am quite free this afternoon."
Miss Kelly agreed placidly. When she had gone, Spencer stood a moment beside Catherine, his eyes intent on her face; Catherine saw a wavering tenseness in his look. He wanted to hurl himself at her, and he didn't want to. She couldn't reach out for him, if he felt too grown-up for such expression. She smiled at him, and with a huge sigh he settled into the wicker chair, one foot curled beneath him.
"She was glad to go home, wasn't she?" he said.
"I'm glad she went," announced Marian. "She bosses me."
"Good for you," said Spencer. "Mother, read us 'Treasure Island.' I'm sick of old fairies."
Margaret came in, her ring waking Letty. Catherine laughed at the unconcealed expectancy with which the children welcomed their aunt.
"You've ruined them," she said, as Marian danced up the hall, her eyes wide with anticipation for the packages Margaret carried.
"Well, they are delighted to see their old aunt, anyway!" Margaret dropped to the floor, scattering the bundles, her hands held over them in teasing delay.
"Your dress, Marg! On the floor in that?"
"Just a rag. Here, Letitia, your turn first."