“You needn’t scream so,” said Aunt Mary. “I ain’t so hard to hear as you think. I ain’t but seventy, and I’ll beg you to remember that, Arethusa. Besides, I don’t want to hear you talk. I just want to hear about Jack. I’m askin’ about his bein’ expelled and suspended, an’ what’s the difference, an’ in particular if there’s anything to pay for broken glass. It’s always broken glass! That boy’s bills for broken glass have been somethin’ just awful these last two years. Well, why don’t you answer?”
“I don’t know what to answer,” Arethusa screamed.
“What do you suppose he’s done, anyhow?”
“Something bad.”
Aunt Mary frowned.
“I ain’t mad,” she said sharply. “What made you think I was mad? I ain’t mad at all! I’m just askin’ what’s the difference between bein’ expelled an’ bein’ suspended, an’ it seems to me this is the third time I’ve asked it. Seems to me it is.”
Arethusa laid down her work, drew a mighty breath, very nearly got into the ear-trumpet, and explained that being suspended was infinitely less heinous than being expelled, and decidedly less final.
Aunt Mary looked relieved.
“Oh, then he’s gettin’ better, is he?” she said. “Well, I’m sure that’s some comfort.”
And then there was a long pause, during which she appeared to be engaged in deep reflection, and her niece continued her embroidery in peace. The pause endured until a sudden sneeze on the part of the old lady set the wheels of conversation turning again.