The face of Miss Greene, portentously grave, was peeping through the jar.
Mr. Korner rose. Miss Greene entered stealthily, and, closing the door, stood with her back against it.
“I suppose you know what—what you've done?” suggested Miss Greene.
She spoke in a sepulchral tone; it chilled poor Mr. Korner to the bone.
“It is beginning to come back to me, but not—not very clearly,” admitted Mr. Korner.
“You came home drunk—very drunk,” Miss Greene informed him, “at two o'clock in the morning. The noise you made must have awakened half the street.”
A groan escaped from his parched lips.
“You insisted upon Aimee cooking you a hot supper.”
“I insisted!” Mr. Korner glanced down upon the table. “And—and she did it!”
“You were very violent,” explained Miss Greene; “we were terrified at you, all three of us.” Regarding the pathetic object in front of her, Miss Greene found it difficult to recollect that a few hours before she really had been frightened of it. Sense of duty alone restrained her present inclination to laugh.