“Butcher got another one; ain’t ye, Uncle Starkweather?” demanded the metamorphosed Helen, looking about with a broad smile. “Where’s the little tad?”
“‘Little tad’! Oh, won’t Flossie be pleased?” again murmured Hortense.
“My youngest daughter is at school,” replied Mr. Starkweather, nervously.
“Shucks! of course,” said Helen, nodding. “I forgot they go to school half their lives down east here. Out my way we don’t get much chance at schoolin’.”
“So I perceive,” remarked Hortense, aloud.
“Now I expect you,’Tense,” said Helen, wickedly, “have been through all the isms and the ologies there be—eh? You look like you’d been all worn to a frazzle studyin’.”
Belle giggled. Hortense bridled.
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me out of my name,” she said.
“Huh?”
“My name is Hortense,” said that young lady, coldly.