That night at supper she tried unsuccessfully to appear indifferent and at ease under Carrie's round unblinking stare of malice. Carrie began:
"Mama, what did Mrs. Perry have to tell you when she came calling this afternoon?"
"Nothing that would interest you, my pet. You haven't touched your potato."
"Would it interest Charlotte?"
"No."
"Is that why you sent her out of the room?"
"Yes. Now eat your p——"
"Charlotte didn't like being sent out of the room, did she? H'm, mama?"
"Isaac, will you speak to that child. I don't know what——"
Charlotte's face was scarlet. She knew. Her father would speak sternly to the too inquisitive Carrie. That crafty one would thrust out a moist and quivering nether lip and, with tears dropping into her uneaten potato, snivel, "But I only wanted to know because Charlotte—" and out would come the tale of Charlotte's foot-stamping and face-making.