Mrs. Donovan had come to the basement window just in time to hear this angry outburst and she called hastily: "Mary Rose! Mary Rose!"
Mary Rose never heard her. "Why are you always picking at me?" she demanded of Mr. Wells. "I'm only a little girl and you're a big man but never once since I came to Waloo have you looked as if you wanted to be friends with me. I don't mean to be impudent but you—you do make it very hard for me to like you." Her lip quivered and she turned quickly and hid her face against Miss Thorley's white skirt.
Miss Thorley's arm went around her and a thrill of emotion rarely intense ran over the older girl. When she spoke her voice was strange even to herself:
"Really, Mr. Wells, this is all very unnecessary. You have not been annoyed by Mary Rose or her pets. I think you can trust to her and to the Donovans—"
"Oh, you can!" Mary Rose's face came out again and she was so eager to assure him that he could that she forgot how rude it is to interrupt. "You shan't ever see Solomon unless you look out of one of the windows in the white-faced wall. He's going to live with Mr. Jerry. I've made all the arrangements. I never meant you to be bothered with him. But I do wish you'd like him. He's a very friendly dog," wistfully. "He'd like you to like him."
Mr. Wells looked at the friendly dog who wanted to be liked, and at Mary Rose, before his eyes swept the older group. There was not the faintest trace of a smile on the faces of Miss Thorley and Miss Carter, but there was more than a trace on the countenance of Bob Strahan.
"I don't like dogs!" the grin made him say with a snap. "I won't have one here!" And he went up the steps and slammed the screen door behind him.
"Mercy, mercy!" feebly murmured Mr. Strahan. "You might think he owned the whole works. My rent comes due every month, just as his does."
At her window Aunt Kate wrung her hands and thought sadly how comfortable they were in the basement of the Washington. Mr. Wells would never rest now until he had Larry discharged. She knew he wouldn't. He would never overlook the fact that Mary Rose had talked back to him on the very steps of the Washington. She could not blame Mary Rose, the child had had provocation enough, goodness knows, but she wished—she wished—Oh, how fervently she wished that Mr. Wells had never been born!
Mary Rose looked sadly after the retreating figure which looked as friendly and unbending as a poker.