“Rome wasn’t built in a day, you remember,” he replied as affably as his feelings allowed.
“That’s right,” she called above the sound, “but your old man prob’ly thinks it didn’t take over a week.”
Mauney was examining his hand near the coal-oil lamp on the kitchen table. The spike had completely perforated his palm leaving a torn wound that still bled. He tossed his hat to the old couch by the door and bent nearer the lamp. Although big-bodied he had a boyish face, filled now with youthful perplexity. The skin over the prominent bridge of his nose had an appearance of being tightly drawn, although his nostrils were as sensitive as the young lips beneath them. His chin, by its fullness, suggested a vague, personal determination to be expected in one older, but his eyes sparkled with that devotion of eager attention which is reserved to youth alone.
He glanced toward the pantry from which the beating sound still emerged. “Do you know what to do for this?” he asked loudly.
The noise of the beater stopped.
“What d’juh say?”
“I hurt my hand and—”
She came forth, with her muscular arms covered by shreds of dough, and walked to glance at his stained hand.
“Oh good God!” she exclaimed, turning away. “I certainly do hate blood, Maun.”