“Good for Uncle Bob!”
“He says to her, ‘Miss Simpson, Phœbe will not remain at your precious school’. And I showed her out the front door,”—this with a flourish of her arms, both hands coming to rest on her hips while she gave a toss of the tousled head.
Phœbe touched Sophie on the shoulder. “Is—is divorce why my mother sent me here?” she asked.
“Phœbe, if I tell y’ the truth——”
“But, then, maybe you don’t know either,” added Phœbe, adroitly, since she had learned that, with Sophie, the best method was to belittle Sophie’s knowledge, and thus strike at her pride.
“Maybe I don’t know!” cried Sophie, scornfully. “I guess I knew all about it before you ever showed up. Your paw brought you, young lady, without your mamma knowin’ that he planned to. Now!”
“Sophie!” It was Phœbe’s turn to sit back. She stared, aghast.
“Yes, ma’am. Your paw just naturally stole you.”
“But Mother’s telegram! It told me to come.”
“Yes? Well, your paw sent you that telegram.”