"Damned presumption of the fellow to come here and take up my time! He isn't even a gentleman."
"I thought you prided yourself on not being a snob, Uncle Osmond."
"Don't be stupid. Breeding is breeding."
"Well, what is good breeding if it isn't being courteous in your own house? You may call that young man common, but I doubt whether he bullies women!"
"You're cross!" he snapped at her. "Look pleasant!" he commanded, bringing his hand down heavily on the arm of his chair.
"I won't!" And for the first and only time in all the eight years of her life with him, Margaret turned upon him with a stamp of her foot.
He stared at her incredulously.
"You call that good breeding, do you, stamping your foot at your benefactor?"
"'Benefactor?'" Margaret flew across the room and violently turned the pages of the dictionary on a stand in the corner. "'Benefactor,'" she read, '"a doer of kindly deeds; a friendly helper.' You see, I'm your benefactor, according to the Standard."
"You're begging the question: is it well-bred for a young lady to stamp her foot?"