"No right at all," she said.
"There!" exclaimed Ed, exultantly.
"But I have the right," said Anthy, "if I choose to exert it."
There was a curious finality in her voice—calmness and finality. The old Captain was frowning, but Anthy held him close by the arm. A moment of silence followed. I suppose we must, indeed, have been an absurd group of men standing there helplessly, for Anthy surveyed us with a swift glance.
"What are you all so serious about?" she asked.
While we were awkwardly bestirring ourselves, Anthy took off her hat, just as usual, put on her apron, just as usual. It was the natural-born genius of Anthy to have the orderly wheels of life running again. And presently, standing near the Captain's littered desk, she exclaimed:
"At last, at last, Uncle Newt, you've written your editorial on Roosevelt!"
She picked up the manuscript.
"Yes, Anthy," rumbled the Captain, "I have written my convictions about the Colonel. It was a duty I had."
The Captain was not yet placated, but there was no resisting Anthy very long. "David will never be satisfied until he hears it," she said. She looked over the pages. "Have you said exactly what you think, Uncle?"