“I mean, I know,” she answered, confused.
“Get that Kahn out, he’s a rascal,” he said, abruptly, grinning.
“What are you saying, Oscar?” she demanded, turning cold. “I’ll never come to your bed again, take your hands and say ‘Our Father.’”
“It will be all right if you send that man packing,” he said, stressing the word “packing.”
She was very angry, and half started toward the door. Then she turned back. “Why do you say that, Oscar?”
“Because he makes you nervous—well, then—because he crouches”; he saw by his mother’s face that she was annoyed, puzzled, and he turned red to his ears. “I don’t mean that, I mean he isn’t good; he’s just watching for something good to happen, to take place——” His voice trailed off, and he raised his eyes solemn and full of tears to her face. She leaned down and kissed him, tucking him in like a “little boy.”
“But I’m not a little boy,” he called out to her.
And tonight she did not come down until she thought Kahn and Straussmann had gone.
Kahn had disappeared, but Straussmann had taken a turn or two about the place and was standing in the shadow of the stoop when she came out.
“Come,” he said. “What is it that you want?”