“Did you do what I told you to––about Henry?”
He was struggling to keep a grip on himself. “Well, no––not exactly.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” she said tartly. “Well, what did you do?”
“Mirabelle,” said her brother, “don’t you think that’s––just a little mite personal?”
“Well––I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry’s acted, he don’t deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from anybody. And if I’ve got anything to say, he won’t get it, either.”
Mr. Starkweather’s round, fat face, wore an expression which his sister hadn’t seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair for support. “Mirabelle, you haven’t got a word 45 to say about it. I’ve made some changes in my will, but it’s nobody’s damned business outside of mine.”
She reached for her handkerchief. “John! To think that you’d swear––at me––”
He wet his lips. “I didn’t swear at you, but it’s a holy wonder I don’t. I’ve stood this just about as long as I’m goin’ to. Henry’s my own flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn’t waste my money a minute quicker’n you would. He’d do a damn sight better with it. He’d have a good time with it, and make everybody in the neighbourhood happy, and you’d burn it up in one of your confounded reform clubs. Well, all I’ve got’s a sister and a nephew, so I guess the money’s goin’ to be wasted anyhow. But one way’s as good’s another, and Henry’s goin’ to get a fair break, and don’t you forget it.” He took a glass of water from the table, and spilled half of it. “Don’t you forget it.”
At last, she had perception. “John, you don’t know what you’re saying! What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
He was swallowing repeatedly. “Yes, I am. Sick of the whole thing.” His eyes, and the 46 hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she went to him, but he avoided her. “No, I don’t want anything except to be let alone.... Is the car out there?”