Mr. Sybert changed his position uneasily, and cleared his throat. “Well, that’s diff’rent,” he said. “I ust to know ’er before ’er husband died”——
“Well, I ust to know ’er, then, too,” said Mrs. Sybert, quietly.
“Well, you hed to stop speakin’ to ’er after she got to actin’ up so, but it wa’n’t so easy fer me to stop biddin’ ’er the time o’ day.”
“Why not?” said Mrs. Sybert, stolidly.
“Why not!” repeated her husband, loudly; he was losing his temper. “What’s the sense o’ your actin’ the fool so, mother? Why, if I’d ’a’ set myself up as bein’ too virtjus to speak to ’er ev’ry man in town ’u’d ’a’ be’n blagg’ardin’ me about bein’ so mighty good!”
“Why sh’u’dn’t you be so mighty good, father? You expect me to be, I notice.”
Mr. Sybert choked two or three times. His face was growing purplish.
“Oh, damn!” he burst out. Then he looked frightened. “Now, see here, mother! You’re aggravatin’ me awful. You know as well as me that men ain’t expected to be as good all their lives as women”——
“Why ain’t they expected to?” Mrs. Sybert’s tone and look were stern.
“I don’t know why they ain’t, mother, but I know they ain’t expected to—an’ I know they ain’t as good, ’ither.” This last was a fine bit of diplomacy. But it was wasted.