Robert was no baby to be tweaked around by nurses and half choked while his necktie was put on him. Until he himself could adjust a necktie he would wear none that had been tied by any one else's hand. He wasn't old enough to say this, but he was old enough to feel it. He was old enough to defy his family in his fight for personal dignity.
One afternoon Alice saw him leaving the house. About his neck was a brilliant strip of color. It hung below his shirtwaist midway between his thigh and knee. Alice recognized the flamboyant necktie as one of her husband's which he had found too brilliant to wear. Not only was Robert adorned in this magnificent cravat, neatly tied—but his hair was brushed; he looked washed. He looked all the things that were so rarely accomplished without a suggestion from some older person. As he started off, Alice felt that she had not for weeks seen him look like such a little boy—they never look younger than when they are aping their fathers' ways. It was Laurie who snatched her from this comforting reflection.
"He's going to see his girl!" were the words she spoke
"His girl!" Alice echoed stupidly. Not eight years old and going to see his girl, with his father's necktie dangling almost to his knees!
"Who is his girl?" Alice inquired next. "Does he tell you?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, ma'am," said Laurie, "he's quite confidential about them. He's got two. One is Phyllis Bennett and the other is Marion Riley."
"He's not going to see that one now," piped up Sara. "He's going to see a new one! He's going to Gwendolyn!"
"An' I've a beau, too," said Sara. Alice had not
