“Now, Wint—don’t aggravate your father,” Mrs. Chase urged. “You will drive me to—”
“Hetty, pass my son’s plate,” directed the elder Chase, discovering the girl in the doorway. “Your place is in the kitchen while the meals are being served, not in the hall.”
“All right,” said Hetty cheerfully, and she took Wint’s plate and went around the table to his father’s side. Thus relieved of the elder Chase’s scrutiny, she winked lightly at Wint and smiled. He made no response. A moment later, she set his plate before him, and departed toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Chase began at once to talk. Her eating did not seem to interfere with the gently querulous stream of her conversation. She spoke of many things. Housekeeping cares, the perplexities and annoyances of the day, the acquisition of Hetty, her hope that Hetty would prove a good girl, a good cook, a good housemaid. “She’s not going to go home at night, either,” she explained. “When girls go home at night, they’re never here in time to get breakfast. When I have a girl, I want her in the house, so’s I can see she gets up. She—”
The elder Chase interrupted obliviously. He had been studying his son. “Wint, have you been drinking to-day?” he demanded.
Wint looked up quickly, a retort on his lips. But he checked it, and instead said quietly:
“No.”
“Oh, Wint,” Mrs. Chase exclaimed, “you ain’t going to do any more of that, are you, son? You—”
“I’m keeping my eye on you, young man,” interrupted her husband. “You left the office early to-day. Who gave you permission?”
“The work was done.”