“Dear parent, you're excited,” remarked Zeke.
She brought her reminiscent gaze back to rest upon her son. “Get your coat quick, 'Zekiel. Here's the telegram. Take the car that passes the park gate, and stop at the station. That's the nearest place.”
Ezekiel obediently struggled into the coat hanging conveniently near. “What does the telegram say?—'Run away, little girl, the ogre isn't hungry'?”
“Not much! She's coming. He's sending for the brat.”
“Poor brat! How did it happen?”
“Just some more of my lady's doings,” answered Mrs. Forbes angrily. “Of course she had to put in her oar and exasperate Mr. Evringham until he did it to spite her.”
“Cutting off his own nose to spite his face, eh?” asked Zeke, taking the slip of paper.
“Yes, and mine. It's going to come heavy on me. I could have shaken that woman with her airs and graces. Catch her or Mamzell lifting their hands!”
“Yet they want her, do they?”
“No, Stupid! That's why she's coming. Can't you understand?”