“Mrs. Wells.”
For a moment Phœbe stared at him soberly; then she broke into merriment.
“It’s no joke,” he said solemnly. “She has sold off the land that paid the best income—the apples—and she has been borrowing and not paying back for twenty years.”
Phœbe sat down weakly.
“You’re tryin’ to frighten me,” she said.
“It’s the truth. Furthermore——”
Richard ceased speaking and fumbled for cigarette paper.
“Furthermore what?” Phœbe demanded impatiently.
“Your muffins are burning.”
“Let ’em! What’s this furthermore business?”