Peter put his hand on the door-knob, ready for instant flight. When he smiled on Mrs. Potter something like this usually resulted and that was why he tried it so seldom. It was he, now, who trembled and fluttered.
“I'm not thinking of getting married at all,” he said. “I couldn't afford to, anyway.”
“You needn't think, just because you are no-account, some fool woman wouldn't take you,” snapped Mrs. Potter. “Look at what my first husband was. Women marry all sorts of trash.”
Peter watched the progress of the bread and jam, trusting its preparation would not be delayed long.
“If they're asked,” said Mrs. Potter. She seemed very cross about something. She wrapped the slices of bread in a clean sheet of paper from her table drawer, folding in the ends of the paper angrily. “But they don't do the asking,” she added.
Peter took the parcel, and slipped the six clean white eggs into his pocket. He wanted to get away, but Mrs. Potter stopped him.
“I suppose, if there is a boy down there, I've got to give you what's left of my roast chicken,” she grumbled, “or you'll be coming up here about the time I get into bed, routing me out for more victuals. If I had a husband, and he was like you, and he had a mind to feed all the tramps in the county, he wouldn't have to rout me out of bed to do it. He could go to the cupboard himself, and feed them.”
“Now, that clock,” said Peter hastily, “if I was you I wouldn't depend too much on her alarm to get you up. I can't say she's regulated just the way I'd like to have her yet. And I'm much obliged to you.”
“I don't want your clock!” said Mrs. Potter, but Peter had slipped out of the door, closing it behind him. The widow held the clock in her hand for a full minute, and then set it gently beside her own opulent Seth Thomas.
“I dare say you 're about as well regulated as he is,” she said, “and that ain't saying much for either of you. He ain't got the eyes to see through a grindstone!”