"Now don't begin to be fussy," she said, not impudently, but as one equal gives advice to another. Yet even this mild suggestion of reproof was painful to Edna. She turned to her brother and said passionately, "I'm not fussy, am I? I don't see how you can say that, Antonia. It's only that your uncle wouldn't close an eye if he thought you were sleeping in damp pajamas; would you, Anthony?" And she laughed gayly. This was one of her most irritating ways--to pretend that she was just a wild thing like the children, but that to oblige some stuffy older person she was forced to ask the children to conform. "I might close an eye, at that," said Anthony. The whole incident had finally decided him to take the prospective governess entirely into his confidence. He had thought at first it would be more honorable to let her discover the situation for herself, but now he saw that she would need not only all his knowledge of the situation but the full conviction that he was backing her, whatever she did. He became convinced of this even before he saw Miss Exeter. Having seen her, he had no further hesitation. He thought her as sensible a person as he had ever met. She sat there in the hard north light of his office, noting down now and then a few words in a little black notebook. She was not only sensible--she was to be depended on. "The truth is," he said, "that Antonia, not to put too fine a point on it, is not personally clean." Miss Exeter smiled, for to her mind the tone of agony in his voice was exaggerated. "But at a certain age no children are," she said. "But most children are forced to be, and my sister lets this child run wild, so that people talk about it. I suppose I oughtn't to mind so much," he said, looking at her rather wistfully; "but you can't imagine how I hate to think that people discuss Antonia's being dirty. And all my sister says is that she's so glad the child isn't vain. Oh, Miss Exeter, if you could get Antonia dressed like a nice, well brought up little girl I think I'd do anything in the world for you." She promised that too. In fact, by the time she finally left the office and was on her way uptown, late for an engagement she had with Horace Bayne, she was alarmed to remember how many things she had promised--not only to stay until he came back but to write to him every day, a long report of just what had happened in the family and what her impressions of it were. "Not letters," he had said, "because I shan't answer them; but reports--reports on my family, as I am going to make a report on this mine." They were to be typewritten. He had no intention of struggling with any woman's handwriting, though Augusta murmured that hers was considered very legible.