Old Westlake fancied he heard a mocking "indeed" that followed. In fact, an echo that had the queer effect of making him hear double seemed to accompany all his words. It came from the portieres, which were suspiciously bulky, and shook as though something more than the wind moved them. "And how soon will she be home?" he asked. "Kate? You mean Kate? Oh, I really do not know." Sissy pronounced her words with pedantic care--a permissible thing among Madigans when adults were to be guyed. Old Westlake (he was rather a handsome old fellow, with his regular features, his blond mustache, and prominent blue eyes) fidgeted uneasily. There must be some way, he felt, of moderating this half-chilly, half-critical atmosphere on the part of the smaller Madigans. But children were riddles to him, and the solutions his small experience offered were either too simple or too complex. "She can't be intending to spend the whole day out?" he asked, conscious that he presented a ridiculous figure to the childish gray eyes lifted to his. "No, I don't suppose she can," agreed Sissy. "Won't you come in?" He followed her hesitatingly into the parlor and sat down, his eyes fixed upon the portieres over the front windows, which still appeared to be strangely agitated. "You--do you think it will be worth while--my waiting?" he asked helplessly, as Cecilia was modestly about to withdraw. She looked up at him with the bland look of intelligence which it takes a clever child to counterfeit. "Worth while waiting for Kate?" she asked in accents half puzzled, half reproachful. Old Westlake blushed to the roots of his close-cropped fair hair. He fancied he heard a muffled gurgle behind the portieres that wasn't soothing. "Oh--you mean, is she likely to come home soon?" added Sissy, gravely, eying his discomfiture. "I really do not know." "Is Miss Madigan in?" asked the desperate man. "Why, do you call her that? I told you she was out." "No; you told me Katherine was out. Is she in?" he asked eagerly. Sissy stared at him stupidly. He returned her stare contemplatively. He yearned to bribe her, but he didn't dare. She looked too old to be bought, too young to understand; yet he was sure she was neither. "Katherine, Kate, and Miss Madigan are out," said Sissy, didactically. "So are Kitty, Kathleen, and even Kathy--that's her latest; she wrote it that way in Henrietta Bryne-Stivers's autograph-album." The visitor looked bewildered. "I asked you whether your aunt is in," he said, with some impatience. "I beg your pardon," retorted Sissy, ceremoniously. No Madigan begged pardon unless intending to be doubly offensive thereafter. "You asked me whether my sister was in." "Is--your--aunt--in?" demanded Westlake, with insulting clearness. "She--is--in. I'll--tell--her--you're--here." "Please." Westlake bit the word out, promising himself that his first post-nuptial act would be to shake this small sister-in-law well for her impertinence.