"Anything the matter with you-all?" he inquired suavely.
"Yes, they's a-plenty the matter with us, and with all decent and respectable persons here in this house gathered this night," the Widow Griever began in a high, shaking, unnatural voice.
"I reckon all that means Ola Derf, for short," cut in Lance, not choosing to be bored with a lengthy harangue.
"Yes, it does," Roxy told him. "That thar gal would never have been bidden to Miz. Gentry's house. Callisty would never have been called on to even herself with sech, long as she staid 141 under her gran'pappy's roof. And when it comes to what it did out in 'tother room, it's more than Callisty that suffers."
"Suffers!" echoed her brother with a contemptuous grin. "Well, if that don't beat my time! I reckon Ola Derf cain't eat any of you-all. She's just a little old gal, and you're a good-sized crowd of able-bodied folks—what harm can she do you?"
"Well, Lance," began his mother-in-law, with studied moderation, though she was plainly incensed, "I do not think, hit's any way for you to do—evening Callista with such folks. She ain't used to it."
Lance looked to where Callista yet held aloof near the door, pale and silent, avoiding his eye.
"A man and his wife are one," he said, with less confidence than would have been his earlier in the day. "What's good enough for me is good enough for Callista."
He got no sign of agreement from his bride—and he had expected it.
"Son, I think you made a mistake to bid that Derf gal here," spoke old Kimbro mildly. "But don't you let her start up any foolishness, and we'll all get through without further trouble."