“Never mind, you won’t be found dead in it, because it happens to be part of my trousseau, and Mr. Whitaker took several dozen photographs of me in it,” says Stella-Rondo. “What on earth could Uncle Rondo mean by wearing part of my trousseau out in the broad open daylight without saying so much as ‘Kiss my foot,’ knowing I only got home this morning after my separation and hung my negligee up on the bathroom door, just as nervous as I could be?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, and what do you expect me to do about it?” I says. “Jump out the window?”

“No, I expect nothing of the kind. I simply declare that Uncle Rondo looks like a fool in it, that’s all,” she says. “It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Well, he looks as good as he can,” I says. “As good as anybody in reason could.” I stood up for Uncle Rondo, please remember. And I said to Stella-Rondo, “I think I would do well not to criticize so freely if I were you and came home with a two-year-old child I had never said a word about, and no explanation whatever about my separation.”

“I asked you the instant I entered this house not to refer one more time to my adopted child, and you gave me your word of honor you would not,” was all Stella-Rondo would say, and started pulling out every one of her eyebrows with some cheap Kress tweezers.

So I merely slammed the door behind me and went down and made some green-tomato pickle. Somebody had to do it. Of course Mama had turned both the niggers loose; she always said no earthly power could hold one anyway on the Fourth of July, so she wouldn’t even try. It turned out that Jaypan fell in the lake and came within a very narrow limit of drowning.

So Mama trots in. Lifts up the lid and says, “H’m! Not very good for your Uncle Rondo in his precarious condition, I must say. Or poor little adopted Shirley-T. Shame on you!”

That made me tired. I says, “Well, Stella-Rondo had better thank her lucky stars it was her instead of me came trotting in with that very peculiar-looking child. Now if it had been me that trotted in from Illinois and brought a peculiar-looking child of two, I shudder to think of the reception I’d of got, much less controlled the diet of an entire family.”

“But you must remember, Sister, that you were never married to Mr. Whitaker in the first place and didn’t go up to Illinois to live,” says Mama, shaking a spoon in my face. “If you had I would of been just as overjoyed to see you and your little adopted girl as I was to see Stella-Rondo, when you wound up with your separation and came on back home.”

“You would not,” I says.