“No, Samantha,” Mr. Pett said, at last, intently at work upon his splicing; “you ain’t so dreadful old, for a fact; but I’ve knowed you when you was a dreadful sight younger. I’ve knowed you,” he continued, reflectively, “when you was the spryest girl in ten miles round—when you could dance as lively as that young lady whose clo’es you’re a-wearin’.”
“Don’t you dare to talk to me about that jade!” said Mrs. Spaulding, snappishly.
“Why, no! certainly not!” said Mr. Pett; “I didn’t mean no comparison. Only, as I was a-sayin’, there was a time, Samantha, when you could dance.”
“And who says I can’t dance now?” demanded Mrs. Spaulding, with anger in her voice.
“My! I remember wunst,” said Mr. Pett; and then the sense of Samantha’s angry question seemed to penetrate his wandering mind.
“‘Dance now?’” he repeated. “Sho! Samantha, you couldn’t dance nowadays if you was to try.”
“Who says I couldn’t?” asked Samantha, again, with a set look developing around the corners of her mouth.
“I say you couldn’t,” replied Mr. Pett, obtusely. “’Tain’t in nature. But there was a time, Samantha, when you was great on fancy steps.”
“Think I’m too old for fancy steps now, do you?” She looked at her tormentor savagely, out of the corners of her eyes.