Indeed, matters were a little more at cross-purposes than they had been the night before. Mrs. Baron had tried again to make a dress for the fastidious guest, accepting certain of Flora’s suggestions, and the result of the experiment hadn’t been at all gratifying. Baron received the first report of the matter from Bonnie May, who was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he entered the house. “You will please make no unkind remarks about my new dress,” she began, assuming the attitude of a fencer, and slowly turning around. The subject--and the child’s frivolous manner--irritated Baron. “Really, I think it’s very pretty and suitable,” he said. “Not at all. It’s neither pretty nor suitable--though both words mean about the same thing, when it comes to a dress. But it’s a great improvement on that first thing. I told your mother that. I told her I’d wear it until I got something better.” Baron sighed. “What did she say to that?” “She was offended, of course. But what was I to do? I can’t see that I’m to blame.” “But can’t you see that mother is doing the best she can for you, and that you ought to be grateful?” “I see what you mean. But I believe in having an understanding from the beginning. She’s got her ideas, and I’ve got mine. She believes you’re Satan’s if you look pretty--or something like that. And I believe you ought to be Satan’s if you don’t.” “But you do look--pretty.” Baron spoke the last word ungraciously. He was trying to believe he would not care much longer what turn affairs took--that he would have forgotten the whole thing in another day or two. He found his mother up-stairs. “Well--any change for the better?” he asked. “I’m sure I don’t know. That depends entirely upon what arrangements you have made.” “I think Thornburg will take her. He’s got to do a little planning.” “People sometimes do before they bring strange children into their houses,” Mrs. Baron retorted. Baron realized that his mother was becoming more successful with her sarcasm. He passed into the library. A mischievous impulse seized him--the fruit of that last fling of his mother’s. He called back over his shoulder. “If the perverse little thing is quite unendurable, you might lock her up in the attic and feed her on bread and water until she leaves.” Mrs. Baron stared after him, dumfounded. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed. “She shall not be treated unkindly, as you ought to know. We owe that much to ourselves.” CHAPTER XI HOW A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY--AND HOW IT WENT AWAY True to his promise, Baron set aside that evening to call on the Thornburgs.