I think, though, she really likes the violinist the best; and I guess Grandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too.
Something happened last night.

Grandfather began to talk at the dinner-table.

He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist, I guess, and he started in to tell Mother.

But they stopped him.
Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back to him, in their most see-who's-here!--you-mustn't-talk-before-her way.
So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped.
But I guess he told them in the library afterwards, for I heard them all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't like what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, when she came out through the door, that she didn't believe a word of it, and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to tell stories like that just because they didn't like a man.
This morning she broke an engagement with Mr.Easterbrook to go auto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead; and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge always _would_ take the part of the under dog.
I suppose they thought I wouldn't understand.

But I did, perfectly.
They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd been hoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made her turn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him.
Funny, isn't it?
* * * * * _One week later_.
Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me say right away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any better than Grandfather and Aunt Hattie.