“You’ll find out!” he mimicked again with a smile. But her attitude was beginning to anger him.
Really, why shouldn’t he fly into a fury, give her a terrible scolding, thump his fist on the table and show that he was the ruler of the house?
He clinched his teeth, assumed an angry countenance and returned to his work.
She, however, took no heed. She knew for certain that she held the upper hand; just let him try to start something and she’d give it to him so hot and heavy that he wouldn’t know where it came from!
He sat there, working away, and felt that he was not at all angry with Chyenke,—that he was merely making a cross face to frighten her into a more tender mood. He glanced at her furtively and knew that he loved her, that a little while later he would be holding her in his arms, on his lap, and would caress her, kiss her, squeeze her. And the thought brought such a tenderness, such a warmth to his heart that he worked with renewed enthusiasm, stealing countless glances at Chyenke.
“Here’s your tea. Drink it!” she ordered, caustically.
He remained seated. This was to signify that he was angry and did not care to know her or her tea.
“Will you take it or not? If you don’t, I’ll spill your tea into the slop-pail!”
Leisurely he laid his work aside and arose with a smile. This was to signify that he was not at all angry, and that he had not intended to play with her and spite her, but that he had been exceedingly engrossed in his work and could not have abandoned it any sooner. He thrust his arms into the air, stretching himself, yawned and smiled.
“My! But you’re hot-tempered!” he laughed.