fashioned hallway—a brightly colored, a robust piece of life against the dead black walnut furnishings and the ponderous draperies.
There was a scuffing of feet on the porch. Edward ran to the heavy door, turned the knob and pulled it open.
Dear Mother stooped from the awful heights of her dignity and kissed Edward on the forehead; at the same time she shooed him before her toward the library, and told Sarah to shut the door, and remarked that if little boys with colds in their heads didn't know enough to keep out of draughts, older and wiser people must so manage as to keep them out of them.
Edward, his eyes on the cracked urn, entered the library. His Dear Mother and the girls followed.
She advanced toward the fire, her heavy silks rustling and creaking, her hands held out to the warmth, and perceived that one of the two Dresden china urns had been cracked. She stopped short as if she had been stabbed. Then she said in a very quiet voice:
"One of my priceless Dresden china urns has been broken. Somebody has been touching one of my priceless Dresden china urns, which I do not allow anybody to touch, and has broken it."
By what mental process Mrs. Eaton fastened
