“Er—my cousin is not quite herself—hysterical—er....” He lapsed into silence. No one ever maintained an argument against Mrs. Witherby’s sniffs.
“You may call it hysteria. I call it ingratitude—and bad manners. But, really! why should one expect Rosamond Cort, of Poplars Vale, to have innate manners? (She emphasized “innate” with an inflection all her own.) Where was she to learn them? From her mother—at the butter-tubs?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Witherby, I assure you Rosamond is most grateful—in fact, I might say, almost too grateful. You mistake.”
She put an end to his tremulous mumblings, sharply.
“Instead of contradicting me, I’d be obliged if you’d relieve me of my bundles. I’ve carried them all the way up the hill. No one came to meet me or assist me in any way.”
Bowing nervously, Howard seized, from her collection, one bandbox—the largest—and the handbag.
“I apologize a thousand times. My cousin was giving me a description of—er—the events that occurred here to-night. And....”
“Kindly be careful with that bandbox,” she snapped.
He bowed again, smiling foolishly.
“I beg your pardon. I believe you will find that I have not injured it.” He handed it back to her.