“Be'trice will help me take care of dem if dey're sick,” he remarked comfortably. Then something in his divinity's face startled his assurance. “You's going wis us, isn't you, Be'trice? I want you to help take care of my two puppies. Martha can't, 'cause she slaps dere ears. Is you going wis us, Be'trice?” This, at the dinner table, was, to say the least, embarrassing--especially on this especial evening, when Beatrice was trying to muster courage to give Sir Redmond the only answer it was possible to give him now. It was an open secret that, in case she had accepted him, the home-going of Miss Hayes would be delayed a bit, when they would all go together. Beatrice had overheard her mother and Miss Hayes discussing this possibility only the day before. She undertook the impossible, and attempted to head Dorman off. “Perhaps you'll see a whale, honey. The puppies never saw a whale, I'm sure. What do you suppose they'd think?” “Is you going?” “You'd have to hold them up high, you know, so they could see, and show them just where to look, and--” “Is you going, Be'trice?” Beatrice sent a quick, despairing glance around the table. Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest and anxiety. The fifth pair--Dick's--were trying to hide their unrighteous glee by glaring down at the chicken wing on his plate. Beatrice felt a strong impulse to throw something at him. She gulped and faced the inevitable. It must come some time, she thought, and it might as well be now--though it did seem a pity to spoil a good dinner for every one but Dick, who was eating his with relish. “No, honey”--her voice was clear and had the note of finality--“I'm not going--ever.” Sir Redmond's teeth went together with a click, and he picked up the pepper shaker mechanically and peppered his salad until it was perfectly black, and Beatrice wondered how he ever expected to eat it. Mrs. Lansell dropped her fork on the floor, and had to have a clean one brought. Miss Hayes sent a frightened glance at her brother. Dick sat and ate fried chicken. “Why, Be'trice? I wants you to--and de puppies'll need you--and auntie, and--” Dorman gathered himself for the last, crushing argument--“and Uncle Redmon' wants you awf'lly!” Beatrice took a sip of ice water, for she needed it. “Why, Be'trice? Gran-mama'll let you go, guess. Can't she go, gran'mama?” It was Mrs. Lansell's turn to test the exquisite torture of that prickly chill along the spine. Like Beatrice, she dodged. “Little boys,” she announced weakly, “should not speak until they're spoken to.” Dick came near strangling on a shred of chicken. “Can't she go, gran'mama? Say, can't she? Tell Be'trice to go home wis us, gran'mama!” “Beatrice”--Mrs. Lansell swallowed--“is not a little child any longer, Dorman. She is a woman and can do as she likes. I”--she was speaking to the whole group--“I can only advise her.”