"Interest, Simon. Pure, unadulterated interest."
"Well, stop it! I don't like it!"
For a wonder, she acceded to his insistence without a word. It cost her no effort to avoid looking at him for the remainder of the time at the table, after which they rose in silence and parted. Simon went inevitably to his study, Miss Ocky in sisterly fashion to Lucy's room to inquire the cause of her malaise.
Two hours passed before she came down again. Two somewhat trying hours, to judge from the expression on her face, which wore a look as grim as any ever sported by Medusa. Her eyes were cold and hard as she marched promptly to the closed study door and rapped upon it—a gesture of icy politeness.
"Come in! Humph. So it's you, Ocky! Dropped in to take another good look at me?"
"No—to have a rather serious talk with you, Simon." From the effortless way in which she drew a heavy armchair into the position she desired, a shrewd observer might have gleaned a hint of the muscular strength that was her heritage from many a camp and trail. "Hope you don't mind."
"Quite the contrary. By a serious talk I presume you mean a row. Well—I've gotten so I thrive on 'em!"
"Yes. I pity you just enough, Simon, to wish you weren't so fond of them." Miss Ocky dropped into her chair and lighted a cigarette with pensive deliberation. "I don't know that I can offer you a real row, my idea was to hand you a few straight-from-the-shoulder remarks and then a couple of ultimatums. As for the brutal badinage in which you delight, I'm in no mood for it this evening."
"Let's have your remarks. I guess I can stand 'em."
"First, then—I suppose you know that you have played the cat-and-banjo with Lucy's happiness for the last twenty-odd years?"