"Why, father? I selected the handsomest room in the house for you. That has always been considered the best—set apart as the guest-chamber."
"Well, as I am not a guest, I have no desire to appropriate the perquisites. I prefer the room opening into the library."
"Not my grandfather's room—not where grandmother hoarded sacred—" She paused, and the silver fruit knife, with which she peeled a peach, clanged sharply as it fell.
"Exactly. I mean the museum of rebel relics. I wish them removed at once, and my own things unpacked and arranged there."
"Father, it was grandmother's expressed wish to keep that——"
"It is rather late to evoke sentiment in her behalf. She left nothing undone to hamper, annoy, and inconvenience us, and——"
"Father! De mortuis—! Although I am her grandchild under protest on her part, she gave me her estate, and the one room she loved ought to be reserved just as she wished."
As she leaned to the right of the urn, to look squarely at her father, her face was close to Mrs. Mitchell, who noted its pallor and an ominous curve in the thin lips. Judge Kent beat a muffled tattoo with the prongs of his fork on the handle of a spoon lying near. He smiled, eyed her fixedly, and inclined his head in dismissal.
"It is not a question for discussion, but a simply imperative matter of obedience to instructions. I must have the change made at once, and if extra help is needed Aaron will see immediately that it is secured."
From the bowl of flowers in the middle of the table he selected a sprig of ruby stock-gilly, inhaled its fragrance, fastened it in his coat, and strolled out on the front colonnade.