“You wouldn’t have to dance,” Bonnie said. “I don’t give a snap about dancing, myself, but I enjoy good music. Maybe you’d like to walk down to the band concert later, when I get off. It always cheers me up.”

“I don’t want to cheer up,” Papa said. “I got a lot on my mind. You get one of those young fellows from the yard. You don’t want an old boy like me to tag along.”

“Mr. Willard, you’re not much past thirty,” Bonnie tremulously protested. “I suppose you think I’m too old, too, being twenty! You don’t need to always act as if you were my father.”

“You’re a nice girl, Bonnie,” Papa said. “You go have a good time.”

“I pressed your suit, Mr. Willard,” Bonnie said, standing in the door, unwilling to leave without a friendlier contact. “No, don’t bother to pay me. I was pressing my own things anyway, so it was no trouble. Well, so long.”

Still she didn’t go. Papa started dealing himself a round of solitaire on the bed, pretending not to notice Bonnie’s uncertainty. The children, laboring over their schoolbooks, glanced up curiously at this scene, not understanding Papa’s gaiety in crowds and his moodiness when alone with their gay, beloved Bonnie.

“I suppose you’ll be gone three weeks this trip,” pursued Bonnie, swinging her keys nervously. “Maybe I might be running down to Columbus next Saturday, myself.”

“That so?” Papa listlessly said.

“Oh, something else,” Bonnie pursued, watching his face anxiously. “The lodge is putting on a show next Thursday night in the hall, and I thought the girls could sing ‘Go to Sleep, My Little Pickaninny,’ then ‘Hello, Central,’ for an encore. They’ll get paid fifty cents.”

Papa beamed now, and looked over with pride at his offspring.

“Their mama would be tickled to hear that,” he exclaimed. “By George, they’re getting to be real professionals.”

“I taught them,” Bonnie reminded him. “I thought it would be cute if they had Florrie in a cradle, rocking her for the first song.”

“Blacked up like a pickaninny?” Marcia asked, excitedly.

“She’s too big for a cradle,” said Lena.

“I am not,” wailed Florrie, clinging to Bonnie’s skirts. “I want to do what Bonnie says.”

Bonnie consoled her, finding a solution to her own vague embarrassment by picking her up to take downstairs with her.

“No objection to my sitting at your table for lunch, Mr. Willard, I hope?” she asked jauntily, and when Papa only shook his head she went away humming, with Florrie on her shoulder.

“Bonnie’s awful good to us, Papa,” said Lena. “Sometimes she reminds me of Mama.”

“Hush! Nobody’s like your Mama,” Papa said harshly. He got up and put on his hat. “Get to work on your lessons now, no more fooling!”

No matter how gloomy he was, alone in the room with them, he changed as soon as he entered a group. They tiptoed down the back stairs to listen outside the lobby or dining room door while he told stories and joked with the other men and the waitresses. No matter how quiet the place would be, Papa’s entrance made it immediately merry. His daughters huddled in the back hall, listening to the roars of laughter and their father’s contagious chuckle, not knowing what was so funny but proud as Punch when somebody cried out, “By George, you can’t beat Harry Willard! No, sir, he can’t be topped!”