The Mysterious Visitor

the pictures now because of the ghostly draperies, and the carpet and all of the furniture had been moved to the terrace. The orchestra was tuning up on a raised platform at one end, and the folding doors at the other end of the room were closed.
    "Even if they were open," Di said, "you couldn’t get out on the terrace, it’s so packed with furniture. And I guess they’ve thrown out all the stuff I ordered. Wait till you see the dining room. The table is positively groaning under turkeys and hams and all sorts of fancy appetizers. And it looks to me as though there must be a waiter for every guest."
    "Never mind, Di," Honey said soothingly. "Everyone’s going to have a wonderful time." "That’s right; just wait and see, Di," Trixie said, and the boys heartily agreed.
    "But what are we going to do?" Di demanded. "A lot of the kids who are coming don’t know how to dance. I don’t myself. But you can’t get that through Uncle Monty’s head. He has made up his mind that we’re going to spend the whole evening dancing and eating. How are we going to play the games we planned with the orchestra making so much noise and all the rooms cluttered up with waiters and fancy decorations?"
    Honey smiled. "The caterers won’t bother us, Di. They’ll serve supper, then clean up everything and go back to New York. And if nobody wants to dance, why the orchestra can leave then, too. Your mother is still here, isn’t she? Couldn’t you ask her if that would be all right? I’m sure she’d say it was."
    Diana shook her head. "You don’t understand. I c-can’t explain."
    "I understand," Trixie cried impulsively. "You don’t want to hurt your mother’s feelings. She thought that you would be pleased with these arrangements."
    "That’s right," Di said, her cheeks flaming. "She let Uncle Monty talk her into thinking all of this would be a grand surprise. Dad is perfectly furious, because he knows how I feel. I mean, he’s awfully mad at Uncle Monty. If you want my candied—I mean, my candid—opinion, Dad can’t stand the sight of Uncle Monty. That’s what I was trying to tell you all on Saturday when I got all mixed up and acted so babyish. I think Dad would give all of his money to Uncle Monty if it meant that Uncle Monty would go away and stay away." Di crammed her clenched fists into the pockets of her red B.W.G. jacket. "Oh, I wish he would. I hate Dad’s money almost as much as I do Uncle Monty." She ran out of the room.
    Honey shook her head. "I think Di’s uncle was mean to ruin her plans, but she shouldn’t hate her mother’s brother."
    "I understand how she feels," Jim said sympathetically. "I hated my own stepfather. Remember, Honey?"
    "That was different," Honey said. "Jonesy was, well, a beast. And he wasn’t a blood relative. He wasn’t any more related to you than David Copperfield was to that awful Mr. Murdstone his mother married. But David’s great-aunt Betsy Trotwood, who didn’t sound very nice in the beginning of the book, was a blood relative, and —well, you’ve all read David Copperfield , so you know what I mean."
    "You mean that blood is thicker than water," Brian said soberly. "And it is. Usually."
    Mart chuckled. "True, true. We have an aunt named Alicia who keeps on thinking that Trix will become a lady someday and manage to handle a needle as though it were not a crowbar. Aunt Alicia even went so far as to try to teach our sister to tat once, but Trix doesn’t hate her, do you, Trix?"
    "Brown eyes," Trixie said suddenly.
    They all stared at her in amazement.
    "Well, he has got brown eyes," Trixie said defensively. "Mr. Wilson has. And Mrs. Lynch’s eyes are as blue as blue delphiniums."
    "So what?" Mart demanded. "You and I and Bobby have Moms’s blue eyes, and Brian’s are black like Dad’s. Does that prove that Brian is an adopted child?"
    "No one in his right mind would have adopted you, that’s for sure," Trixie said with a sniff. "I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was just thinking out loud, as usual." Suddenly she remembered what Regan had said: "Don’t think." And what Honey had said: "Even if Mr. Wilson isn’t quite honest, I don’t think we ought to talk about it in front of Di."
    She opened her mouth to change the subject, but Jim was saying cheerfully, "Speaking of adopted children, I’m one, and my eyes are neither black nor blue. They’re green. What does that make me, Trix?"
    At that moment Di and her uncle joined them at the entrance to the