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Marjorie found a square just like Ethel's, and bought it with a decidedly grownup feeling.
"I don't like to sew much," she confessed to Ethel, as they walked back. "I've tried it a little, but I'd rather read or play."
"But this isn't like regular sewing, and it's such fun to see the names grow right under your eyes. They're so much prettier after they're worked in red than when they're just written in pencil."
"Wouldn't they be prettier still worked in white?" asked Marjorie.
"No; I saw one that way once, and the names don't show at all, -- you can hardly read them. Red is the best, and it doesn't fade when it's washed."
Marjorie had bought red cotton at the shop, and she showed her purchases to her mother with great delight.
"They're fine," said Mrs. Maynard, approvingly. "Now why don't you ask Ethel to write her name, and then you can always remember that hers was the first one on the cloth."
"Oh, that will be lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Will you, Ethel?"
"Yes, indeed," and getting a pencil, Ethel wrote her name in a large, plain, childish hand.
"You must always ask people to write rather large," she advised, "because it's awfully hard to work the letters if they're too small."
Then Ethel lent Marjorie her needle and thimble so that she might do a few stitches by way of practice.
But it was not so easy for Marjorie as for Ethel, and her stitches did not look nearly so nice and neat. However, Mrs. Maynard said that she felt sure Marjorie's work would improve after she had done more of it, and she thanked Ethel for her assistance in the matter.
Then Ethel's mother appeared, and the two ladies were made acquainted, and then it was luncheon time, and the Maynards all went to the dining-room.
"I think the most fun of the whole trip is eating in restaurants," said Kitty. "I just love to look around, and see different tables and different people at them."
"It is fun," agreed King; "but I wouldn't want to live in a hotel all the time. I think it's more fun to be at home."
"So do I," said Marjorie. "Somehow, in a hotel, you feel sort of stiff and queer, and you never do at home."
"You needn't feel stiff and queer, Marjorie," said her father; "but of course there is a certain conventional restraint about a public dining-room that isn't necessary at home. I want you children to become accustomed to restaurants, and learn how to act polite and reserved, without being what Marjorie calls stiff and queer."
"Don't we act right, Father?" inquired Kitty, anxiously.
"Yes, you do very nicely, indeed. Your table manners are all right, and the less you think about the subject the better. This trip will give you a certain amount of experience, and anyway you have all your life to learn in. But I will ask you, children, to be on your good behavior at Grandma Maynard's. She is more difficult to please than Grandma Sherwood, but I want her to think my children are the best and the best-behaved in the whole world."
"How long shall we stay there, Father?" asked Marjorie.
"About three days. I'm sure you can exist that long without falling in the water or cutting up any pranks in the house."
"Is there any water to fall in?" asked King.
"No, there isn't. I used that as a figure of speech. But I'm sure if you try to be quiet and well-behaved children you can easily succeed."
"I'm sure we can," said Marjorie, heartily, and deep in her heart she registered a vow that she would succeed this time.
After luncheon was over, Pompton brought the car around, and they started off again. Marjorie bade Ethel good-bye with a feeling of regret that she did not live nearer, so she might have her for a friend. But she had her autograph as a souvenir, and she intended to work her tablecloth very neatly, so it would look as good as Ethel's.
The afternoon ride was not a long one, and before four o'clock they came in sight of the tall towers of the New York buildings.
The children had never approached the city in a motor car before, and were enthusiastic over the view of it. Mr. Maynard pointed out the different business buildings, some of which they already recognized. They had to cross a downtown ferry, and soon they were speeding north through the streets of crowded traffic.
As they neared Grandma Maynard's house in Fifth Avenue, Mrs. Maynard looked over her brood carefully to see if they were in proper order for presentation.
Except for slight evidences of travel, they all looked neat and tidy, and the girls' pretty motor garb was becoming and correct. Rosy Posy as usual, looked the pink of perfection, for the child had a knack of keeping herself dainty and fresh even in difficult circumstances.
Satisfied with her inspection, Mrs. Maynard gave them final injunctions to behave correctly, and then they reached the house.
The children had been there before, but they did not go often, and for the last two years the elder Maynards had been travelling abroad. So they felt almost like strangers as they entered the lofty and dimly lighted hall, to which they were admitted by an imposing-looking footman in livery.
Ushered into the reception room, the visitors found themselves in the presence of their host and hostess.
Grandma and Grandpa Maynard were most worthy and estimable people; but they were not very young, and they had lived all their lives in an atmosphere of convention and formality. They did not realize that this was different from the mode of living preferred by their son's family, and indeed they were so accustomed to their own ways that it never occurred to them that there were any others.
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard appreciated and understood all this, and accepted the situation as it stood.
But the children, impressed by the admonitions of their parents, and oppressed by the severe and rigid effects of the house, turned into quiet little puppets, quite different from their usual merry selves.
Although the elder Maynards' greetings were formal, Mr. and Mrs. Maynard, Jr., were cordial in their manner. Mr. Maynard shook his father heartily by the hand, and kissed his mother tenderly, and Mrs. Maynard did the same.
Marjorie endeavored to do exactly as her parents did, but as she began to chatter to her grandfather, Grandma Maynard told her that children should be seen and not heard, and bade her sit down on a sofa. The old lady had no intention of hurting Marjorie's feelings, but she meant exactly what she said, and it irritated her to hear a child chatter.
"And now," said Grandma Maynard, after the greetings were all over, "you would like to go to your rooms, I'm sure, and make ready for tea."
Decorously the children filed upstairs and were put in charge of maids who assisted them with their toilets.
Marjorie and Kitty were in the same room, but owing to the maids' presence, they could make no comments.
As the trunks had been sent ahead, they had fresh frocks in plenty, and soon, attired in stiff white kilted piqué, they went downstairs again.
Grandma Maynard nodded approval, and told them to sit down on the divan.
"Of course, you little girls don't drink tea," she said, as she seated herself behind the elaborately appointed tea-tray which the butler had brought in. "So I have milk for you."
This was entirely satisfactory, and as there were plenty of lovely little cakes and dainty sandwiches, the children felt there was no fault to be found with Grandma's hospitality, even though they were not allowed to talk.
King adapted himself rather more easily than the girls to this order of things, and he sat quietly in his chair, speaking only when he was spoken to; and though Marjorie knew he was fairly aching to shout and race around, yet he looked so demure that he almost made her laugh.
Not that she did! No, indeed, she knew better than that; but though she tried very hard to appear at her ease, her nature was so sensitive to mental atmosphere, that her cakes almost choked her.
Rosy Posy was perfectly at ease. The midget sat quietly, and accepted with benign grace the milk and crackers fed to her by one of the maids.
But at last the tea hour was over and the Maynards discovered that virtue is sometimes rewarded.
"You are most pleasant and amiable children," said Grandma Maynard, looking judicially at the quartet, "and you certainly have very good manners. I'm glad to see, Ed, that you have brought them up to be quiet and sedate. I detest noisy children."
"Yes, you are sensible, and not annoying to have around," agreed Grandpa Maynard, and the three older children smiled respectfully at the compliment, but offered no reply.