"Yes, my wife." Peter rose and faced his sisters squarely, his hands in his pockets. He thrust out his under lip, and his florid Dutch face wore an expression of mingled defiance, exultation and embarrassment. "Why, I've been married some time," he said. "You didn't suppose I was going to stay single all my life, did you?"
"But who—who"—Cornelia's mind, moving with unusual rapidity, had already passed in review and rejected as improbable all the eligible young women of the Neighborhood, with none of whom she had ever seen Peter exchange two words. "Who can it be, Peter?" she concluded, lamely.
"Is it—any one we know?" chimed in Joanna, hopefully.
Peter looked them full in the face; he had always held his sisters in some contempt. "You know her well enough," he said, deliberately "or if you don't—you ought to. She's a young lady who lives near here, and her name is Malvina Jones."
There was a dead silence. The old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece, which had kept its place undisturbed through the trials and changes of several generations, seemed to beat in the stillness loudly and fiercely, almost as if it shared the consternation of Peter's sisters, who stared at him aghast. Cornelia was the first to speak. "Malvina Jones!" she repeated, slowly. "You don't mean the—the girl whose father keeps the bar?"
Peter flushed angrily. "There's only one Malvina Jones that I know of" he declared, "and she's my wife and will be the mistress of this house. And so, if you don't like it, you can leave—that's all I have to say."
With this conclusive remark Peter betook himself to his usual avocations, and his sisters were left to resign themselves to the situation as best they might.
"Malvina Jones!" Joanna repeated, still lost in astonishment.
"One of the village girls!" said Cornelia, bitterly, "a—a bar-keeper's daughter."
Joanna seemed to hesitate. "That isn't the worst of it," she said at last. "There are some very nice girls in the village, you know, but Malvina Jones is not—I'm afraid she really is not a very nice girl."