“Say, Orville Parmer! whose house is this?”
“Oh, Emarine!”
“Don’t you ‘oh, Emarine’ me! You answer up!”
“Oh, Emarine, don’t let’s quar’l. We’ve only b’en married a month. Let them quar’l, if they want—”
“You answer up. Whose house is this?”
“It’s mine,” he said in his throat.
“You’rn! Your mother calls it her’n.”
“Well, it is,” he said, with a desperation that rendered the situation tragic. “Oh, Emarine, what’s mine’s her’n. Father left it to me, but o’ course he knew it ’u’d be her’n, too. She likes to call it her’n.”
“Well, she can’t turn my mother out o’ doors. I’m your wife an’ this is my house, if it’s you’rn. I guess it ain’t hardly big enough fer your mother an’ me, too. I reckon one o’ us had best git out. I don’t care much which, only I don’t knuckle-down to nobody. I won’t be set upon by nobody.”
“Oh, Emarine!” There was terror in his face and voice. He huddled into a chair and covered his eyes with both hands. Mrs. Palmer, also, sat down, as if her limbs had suddenly refused to support her. Mrs. Endey ceased rocking and sat with folded hands, grimly awaiting developments.