“Oh, don’t take that tone with me!” he broke out, almost angrily.
“That tone? What tone?” She stared at his quivering face. “I might,” she pursued, still half-laughing, “more properly make that request of you!”
Owen reddened and his vehemence suddenly subsided.
“I meant that I had to speak—that’s all. You don’t give me a chance to explain...”
She looked at him gently, wondering a little at her own impatience.
“Owen! Don’t I always want to give you every chance? It’s because I do that I wanted to talk to your grandmother first—that I was waiting and watching for the right moment...”
“The right moment? So was I. That’s why I’ve spoken.” His voice rose again and took the sharp edge it had in moments of high pressure.
His step-mother turned away and seated herself in her sofa-corner. “Oh, my dear, it’s not a privilege to quarrel over! You’ve taken a load off my shoulders. Sit down and tell me all about it.”
He stood before her, irresolute. “I can’t sit down,” he said.
“Walk about, then. Only tell me: I’m impatient.”