"Rest!" said Angelica. "He never does anything else!"
Courtland ignored her.
"I don’t care if I do," he said to Mrs. Kennedy, and followed her into the kitchen, where he sat down heavily on the step-ladder chair. "I’m as tired as a dawg," he said, with his invariable air of grievance. "It’s enough to make you sick—driving that woman all over the country. No more consideration, she’s got, than a—than a dawg!"
"Well," said Mrs. Kennedy, "I suppose that’s what you’re paid for."
"I know it!" he agreed, plaintively. "That’s all right; but then what does she want to be telling me I’m too good to be a chauffeur for? She says there’s lots of fellows in college hasn’t got my brains. And this golf! There she’s got me the bag of clubs that cost Gawd knows what, and she just started showing me the way to use them. She said I was doing fine, and then, all of a sudden, she dropped it, and never said another word about it. I waited. After a while I began putting the bag of clubs in the car, to remind her. No, not a word! So I says to her to-day, ‘What about this here golf?’ And she says, with that grin of hers, ‘Oh, I hawdly think it’s worth while going on. I’m afraid it was a mistake’—and tells me I can sell the clubs!"
"What of it?" inquired Mrs. Kennedy. "They’re no good to you. I can’t see any sense in your learning to play golf. I can’t see what you have to complain of."
"Oh, it’s the way them rich people pick you up and then drop you that makes me sick! Who is she, anyway? An old——”
"You shouldn’t say that!" said Mrs. Kennedy, severely.
She was well enough used to bad language not to be shocked, but she was displeased.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Angelica, "after all she’s done for you."