“Just as you say,” he acquiesced, hastily. “Where is Phoebe?”
“Next door with the Butler kids—children, I mean. Maybe they’ll ask her to stay to lunch.”
He gave her a surprise. “Go over and tell her to come home. I don’t want her staying to luncheon with those damned Butlers.”
She stared, open-mouthed. “I’m sure, sir, they’re quite as good as—as we are. What have you got against ’em?”
He could not tell her that Butler, who worked in a bank, never took the trouble to notice him except when Nellie was out to spend Sunday.
“Never mind. Go and get Phoebe.”
He made a dash for the kitchen, and when the exasperated Annie returned a few minutes later with Phoebe—rebellious Phoebe, who at 20 that particular moment hated her father—he was in his shirt-sleeves and aproned, breaking eggs over a skillet on the gas stove. His face was very red, as if considerable exertion had been required.
Phoebe was pouting when she came in, but the sight of her father caused her to set up a shriek of glee.
“What fun, daddy!” she cried. “Now we’ll never need Bridget again. I don’t like her. You will be our cook, won’t you?”
Annie’s sarcastic laugh annoyed him.