"True, true!" was the reply. "'Least said, soonest mended.' But I suppose I may be permitted to offer my humble tribute of admiration to my dear, kind friend, who always gives me a welcome to her hospitable board."
Here Mr. Skinner stretched out his long, thin fingers, and laid them gently on Miss Pinckney's, who was in the act of handing him another triangular cut from the pork pie, which had been the pièce de résistance of the supper-table.
"Oh! dear me, Mr. Skinner," Miss Pinckney exclaimed, "I don't look for gratitude—never! So I am not disappointed. Gratitude isn't a plant that grows in these parts. It doesn't flourish. The air doesn't suit it, I suppose."
This was said with a glance at poor Patience, who was well accustomed to such side-hits.
"It is a plant that has a deep root in my heart," said Mr. Skinner, "and I hope the flower is not unpleasing, and that the fruit will be satisfying."
This was a great flight of poetical rhetoric, and Miss Pinckney bridled and simpered like a girl of sixteen.
"You are kindly welcome surely to anything I have to give, Mr. Skinner, now and at all times. Those that don't care for what I provide, well, they may seek their fortune elsewhere, and the sooner the better."
Patience Harrison had long been disciplined to self-control, or she could never have borne the "quips" and "quirks" of her sister.
Thus she kept silence, determined not to wrangle with Miss Pinckney in the presence of witnesses; above all, not in the presence of the man whom she distrusted.
So she quietly cleared away the supper when the meal was concluded, and retired to the back premises to wash up the dishes, and put everything in order for the night.