"So she is,—give her to me,—there, there, mudder's pressus,—petty poppity,—yes, she's queer!"
"Who? Fleurette?"
"You know very well I don't mean Fleurette! I mean that Pride of the West,—that stranger within our gates,—that thorn in the flesh,—that awful Azalea!"
"Meaning me?" and Azalea herself popped her head in at the nursery door.
"Yes," replied Farnsworth, imperturbably, "meaning you. Come in, Azalea,
I want to speak to you. When have you heard from your father?"
"Let me see—about a week ago, I think."
"Will you show me the letter?"
"Why, how inquisitive you are! What do you want to see it for?"
"I'd like to read it. I suppose it isn't distinctly a private letter."
"N-no, of course not. But, the truth is,—I haven't got it."