The sound of heavy footsteps on the back porch put an end to the matter for the time being. Even Phoebe was diverted. 24
Bridget had come back. A little ahead of her usual schedule, too, which was food for apprehension. Usually she took the whole day off when she left “for good and all.” Never before in the history of her connection with Miss Duluth’s menage had she returned so promptly. Involuntarily the master of the house glanced out of the window to see if a rain had blown up. The sun was shining brightly. It wasn’t the weather.
The banging of the outer door to the kitchen caused him to jump ever so slightly and to cast a glance of inquiry at Annie, who altered her original course and moved toward the sitting-room door. In the kitchen a perfectly innocent skillet crashed into the sink with a vigour that was more than ominous.
A moment later Bridget appeared in the door. She wore her best hat and gloves and the dress she always went to mass in. The light of battle was in her eye.
“We—we thought we wouldn’t wait, Bridget,” said Mr.—er—What’s-His-Name, quickly. “You never come back till six or seven, you know, so––”
“Who’s been monkeyin’ wid my kitchen?” 25 demanded Bridget. She started to unbutton one of her gloves and the movement was so abrupt and so suggestive that he got up from his chair in such a hurry that he overturned it.
“Somebody had to get lunch,” he began.
“I wasn’t sp’akin’ to you,” said Bridget, glaring past him at Annie.
He gulped suddenly. For the second time that day his eyes blazed. Things seemed to be dancing before them.
“Well, I’m speaking to you!” he shouted, banging the table with his clenched fist.