“Yo' aw Mrs. Bunker, I believe,” she said in languid Southern accents. “How de doh?”
“I am Mrs. Bunker,” said Mrs. Bunker shortly.
“And so this is where Cunnle Marion stopped when he waited fo' the boat to take him off,” said the stranger, glancing lazily around, and delaying with smiling insolence the explanation she knew Mrs. Bunker was expecting. “The cunnle said it was a pooh enough place, but I don't see it. I reckon, however, he was too worried to judge and glad enough to get off. Yo' ought to have made him talk—he generally don't want much prompting to talk to women, if they're pooty.”
“He didn't seem in a hurry to go,” said Mrs. Bunker indignantly. The next moment she saw her error, even before the cruel, handsome smile of her unbidden guest revealed it.
“I thought so,” she said lazily; “this IS the place and here's where the cunnle stayed. Only yo' oughtn't have given him and yo'self away to the first stranger quite so easy. The cunnle might have taught yo' THAT the two or three hours he was with yo'.”
“What do you want with me?” demanded Mrs. Bunker angrily.
“I want a letter yo' have for me from Cunnle Marion.”
“I have nothing for you,” said Mrs. Bunker. “I don't know who you are.”
“You ought to, considering you've been acting as messenger between the cunnle and me,” said the lady coolly.
“That's not true,” said Mrs. Bunker hotly, to combat an inward sinking.