“Why, Kitty!” cried Mrs. Fenelby.
“Yes!” cried Kitty. “I suppose you will. That seems to be what you want to do—make your guests as uncomfortable as you can. You don’t want us here. You make up this foolish tariff to make trouble, and you drive away your servants so that we feel that we are imposing on you, and you make fun of us when we try to be helpful—”
“Why, Kitty!” exclaimed Mrs. Fenelby again.
“You do!” Kitty declared. “I’m surprised at you, Laura Fenelby, I am indeed. I’m surprised that you should let your husband dictate to you, and make you his slave with his tariffs and such things, but you like it. Very well, be his slave if you want to. But I can see one thing—Billy and I are not wanted in this house. You and your husband just want to be alone and enjoy your selfish house. The best thing Billy and I can do is to go. I can see very plainly now, Laura, that you got up that silly tariff just to drive us out of the house. Very well, we will go!”
She turned from the amazed parents of Bobberts to the amazed Billy who was standing in the hall with the inoffensive pan of hot water in his hands, and put her hand on his arm.
“Come!” she said. “I am going up to pack my trunks.”
For a moment after the shock the Fenelbys sat in surprised silence, looking blankly each into the other’s face, and then Laura spoke.
“Tom,” she gasped, “they mustn’t leave this way!”
Mr. Fenelby slowly folded his napkin, and as slowly placed it in the ring. Then he laid the ring gently on the table and arranged his knife and fork side by side on his plate, as prescribed by the guide books to good manners.
“She said she was going up stairs to pack her trunks,” he said with deliberation. “To pack her trunks. If she has enough to pack into trunks, Laura, there has been smuggling going on in this house.”