It now becomes the duty of the unfortunate writer to exhibit these
children to their fond parents. "Come on, Jimmie," cried little Cora,
"let's go show mamma." And they hurried off, these happy children, to
show mamma.
The Trescotts and their guests were assembled indolently awaiting the
luncheon-bell. Jimmie and the angel child burst in upon them. "Oh,
mamma," shrieked little Cora, "see how fine I am! I've had my hair
cut! Isn't it splendid? And Jimmie too!"
The wretched mother took one sight, emitted one yell, and fell into a
chair. Mrs. Trescott dropped a large lady's journal and made a
nerveless mechanical clutch at it. The painter gripped the arms of his
chair and leaned forward, staring until his eyes were like two little
clock faces. Dr. Trescott did not move or speak.
To the children the next moments were chaotic. There was a loudly
wailing mother, and a pale-faced, aghast mother; a stammering father,
and a grim and terrible father. The angel child did not understand
anything of it save the voice of calamity, and in a moment all her
little imperialism went to the winds. She ran sobbing to her mother.
"Oh, mamma! mamma! mamma!"
The desolate Jimmie heard out of this inexplicable situation a voice
which he knew well, a sort of colonel's voice, and he obeyed like any
good soldier. "Jimmie!"