"Do what?" Pell asked, jerking out the two words in a high staccato. He hated to be questioned, particularly by his wife. His hands reached for the satchel he had brought in.
"Order a man around in his own house."
"And why not, I'd like to know?" Pell inquired. "Who's he, anyhow, and what difference does it make?"
Lucia remained perfectly calm. "Well, if you can't see, of course—"
"There's no use your trying to tell me. Is that what you were going to say?" His face showed his rage.
She did not answer. That infuriated him all the more.
"I see what you mean! But I don't agree," Pell pursued. "This Jones person is nothing in my life. And why I should be deprived of my liquor and forced to eat burnt beans three times a day, I can't see." He emitted a sound that might have been designated a laugh.
"But—while we—" Lucia started to argue, and then thought better of it.
"Why doesn't he set his liquor out and see that the meals are right, himself? Then there wouldn't be any need of my saying anything." His tone was brutally frank. He really disliked Jones, and would be glad when they could get back to New York. There was nothing here worth his consideration. Sturgis had been stupid to think so.