"After everything's picked over on Saturday afternoon!"
Lottie looked down at her plate. Her hands were clasped in her lap, beneath the tablecloth, but there was a tell-tale tenseness about her arms, a rigidity about her whole body. "I thought just this once, mother, you wouldn't mind. Gussie——"
"Are the affairs of Belle's kitchen maid more important than your own mother's! Are they?"
Lottie looked up, slowly. It was as though some force impelled her. Her eyes met Charley's, intent on her. Her glance went from them to Aunt Charlotte—Aunt Charlotte, a spare little figure, erect in her chair—and Aunt Charlotte's eyes were on her too, intent. Those two pairs of eyes seemed to will her to utter that which she now found herself saying to her own horror:
"Why, yes, mother, I think they are in this case. Yes."
CHAPTER VIII
The family rose from the table and moved into the living room, a little constraint upon them. Mrs. Payson stayed behind to give directions to Hulda. Hulda, who dined in a heap off the end of the kitchen table, was rarely allowed to consume her meal in peace. Between Hulda and Mrs. Payson there was waged the unending battle of the coffee-pot. After breakfast, luncheon, dinner the mistress of the house would go into the kitchen, take the coffee-pot off the gas stove and peer into its dark depths.
"My goodness, Hulda, you've made enough coffee for a regiment! That's wasteful. It'll only have to be thrown away."
"Ay drink him."
"You can't drink all this, girl. You'll be sick. You drink altogether too much coffee. Coffee makes you nervous, don't you know that? Yellow!"