"
"Hoh, guess I'm younger'n Mamma, ain't I?" scoffed my other little cousin
who had been sent to inquire into our delay. He is perhaps a dozen years
old, is called "Boy" officially, and Timothy, Jr., in the family records,
and--like Joy--wasn't in the least afraid of me, after five minutes'
acquaintance.
Boy led me down to the others, but dinner was nearly over before I felt at
ease. I'm not used to having at my back a statuesque servant--though this
one was not too statuesque to be surprised by my appearance almost out of
decorum. And I couldn't help knowing that every one wanted to look at me
all the time, which was delicious, but embarrassing. I blushed and gave
stupid answers when addressed, and even feared that I might show myself at
fault in the etiquette of a city table. It was strange to have forks in so
many cases where I've always used spoons. And, though of course I knew
what the finger bowls were, I wasn't quite sure how to use them.
No one was more puzzled by my appearance than Uncle Timothy himself. As he
looked at me--and this he did through most of the meal--certain long gray
hairs in his eyebrows seemed to wave up and down, as I had often noticed
with the frightened curiosity of a child, like the questioning antennae of
an insect.
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