“If I meant silk I guess I wouldn’t say cotton. I might just happen to say silk. I’ve been in the habit of saying silk when I meant silk and cotton when I meant cotton, for quite a number of years, and I might not have changed to-day—I might just happen to not have. I might not have—maybe.”
Arethusa withered under this bitter irony.
“How many spools do you want?” she asked in a meek but piercing howl.
“I don’t care,” said Aunt Mary loftily. “I don’t care how many—or what color—or what number. I just want some Boston cotton, and I want to see you settin’ out to get it pretty promptly to-morrow morning.”
“But if you only want some cotton,” Arethusa yelled, with a force which sent crimson waves all over her, “why can’t I get it in the village?”
Aunt Mary shot one look at her niece and the latter felt the concussion.
“Because—I—want—you—to—get—it— in—Boston,” she said, filling the breaks between her words with a concentrated essence of acerbity such as even she had never displayed before. “When I say a thing, I mean it pretty generally. Quite often—most always. I want that cotton and it’s to be bought in Boston. There’s a train that goes in at seven-forty-five, and if you don’t favor the idea of ridin’ on it you can take the express that goes by at six-five.”
Arethusa pressed her hands very tightly together and carried the discussion no further. She went to bed early and rose early the next morning and Joshua drove her in town to the seven-forty-five.
“It doesn’t seem to me that my aunt is very well,” the niece said during the drive. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think anything about her,” said Joshua with great candor. “If I was to give to thinkin’ I’d o’ moved out to Chicago an’ been scalpin’ Indians to-day.”