“You have charge of everything.”
“Have I! ... And I should like to know what it’s got to do with auntie!”
Maggie lifted her head. “Oh, auntie and Clara, you know—you can’t separate them... Well, I’ve told you.”
She moved to leave.
“I say,” he stopped her, with a confidential appeal. “Don’t you agree with me?”
“Yes,” she replied simply. “I think it ought to be left for a bit. Perhaps he’s made it, after all. Let’s hope so. I’m sure it will save a lot of trouble if he has.”
“Naturally it ought to be left for a bit! Why—just look at him! ... He might be on his blooming dying bed, to hear the way some people talk! Let ’em mention it to me, and I’ll tell ’em a thing or two!”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. She scarcely recognised Edwin.
“I suppose he’ll be all right, downstairs?”
“Right? Of course he’ll be all right!” Then he added, in a tone less pugnacious—for, after all, it was not Maggie who had outraged his delicacy, “Don’t latch the door. Pull it to. I’ll listen out.”