“My dear child, you must not—”
“When I think of how he behaved after Mr. Baxter went away, and the things he said to Oliver when Oliver refused to help pay for the monument his uncle had erected on his own cemetery lot up at Hopkinsville, because Mr. Baxter’s sister was buried there—his own wife, if you please, Daddy—well, when I think of it I nearly choke. I won’t allow you to say I sha’n’t hate him. I just adore hating him and I—”
“My dear, I had no intention of saying you shouldn’t hate Mr. Gooch,” broke in her father. “I was merely trying to say that you must not speak so loud. Some one outside the family circle is likely to hear you.”
“I’ve always said you were a corking preacher, Uncle Herbert,” announced Oliver.
“Thank you,” with the lift of an eyebrow. “No doubt I have improved somewhat with age.”
“I’d give a lot to know just what you said to old Gooch, Oliver, when he came to see you about the monument last fall,” said Jane, invitingly.
“I was mighty careful, I remember, to see that there were no ladies present at the time,” chuckled Oliver. “And besides, I’ve been trying ever since to forget what I said to him. But it’s absolutely impossible, with Uncle Joe dropping in every day or so to remind me of it.”
“I hope Mr. Gooch hasn’t been allowed to forget it.”
“Jane, my dear, you really are becoming quite a vixen,” remonstrated her father.
An automobile came to a sudden stop in front of the house, and an agile young man leaped out, leaving his engine running. He came up the walk with long strides.