“If you’d stay at home and look after your job, instead of running about with that measly little lawyer,” the man began.
“Shut up!” cried Margie.
And somehow that furious exclamation hurt both the listeners. For both those quarreling voices, in spite of their bad temper and unrestraint, were good voices, the voices of people who ought to know better.
“All right!” said the man. “You wait till Bill comes home, young woman!”
“I don’t give a darn about Bill!” she retorted. “If you’re in such a hurry, take the car and go up to the store and get the stuff.”
“Not much!” he said. “It’s your job to get the meals, and I won’t help you. I’ve got enough work of my own to do.”
“I’ll have to take them their things,” murmured Rose, and she and her sister went into the kitchen and, by the feeble light of an ill-trimmed lamp, began to repack the basket in haste.
And while they were so engaged, there came the most tremendous slam of all, next door, and a new voice sounded, another man’s voice, not loud and angry, like the others, but cool, deliberate, and masterful.
“What’s up?” he demanded.
“No dinner ready,” the other man replied petulantly.