He was sitting there, his knee in his hands, gazing blandly at the ceiling and, in judicial fashion, summing up his relative's failings and virtues, when he was interrupted. And the interruption was a startling one. Martha Phipps sprang to her feet and faced him, her cheeks crimson and her eyes flashing.
“Oh, how dare you!” she cried, with fiery indignation. “How CAN you? You sit there and talk about him and—and call him names in that—that condescendin' way as if he was dirt under our feet and yet—and yet he's as far above us as the sky is. Oh, how can you! Don't you see how good he is? Don't you SEE how he's sufferin' now, poor soul, and why? You say he doesn't care for money; of course he doesn't. If it had cost fifty thousand and he had it, I suppose he'd have used it just the same if he thought it would help—help some friend of his out of trouble. But what is tearin' him to pieces is the idea that he has, as he calls it, cheated ME. That he has lied to Jethro and to me and hasn't been the same straight, honest—GENTLEMAN he always is. That's all. HE doesn't give himself credit for takin' his own money to help other folks with. YOU would, I would, but HE doesn't. He talks as if he'd robbed us, or—or killed somebody or somethin'. He is the best—yes, I think he is the best and finest soul that ever breathed. And you sit there and—swing your foot and—and patronize—and call him a fool. A FOOL!... I—I mustn't talk any more or—or I'll say somethin' I'll wish I hadn't.... Good-night, Mr. Cabot.”
She had held her handkerchief tightly crumpled in her hand during this outburst. Now she dabbed hastily with it at either eye, turned and hastened into the dining room, closing the door behind her.
A minute later Primmie came into the room, bearing a lighted lamp.
“I cal'late now I can dast come in here, can't I?” she observed, with dignity. “Anyhow, I hope so, 'cause Miss Martha sent me. She said I was to show you where your bedroom was, Mr. Cabot.”
The Boston banker, who had scarcely recovered from the blast launched at his head by his hostess, rose, still blinking in a dazed fashion, and followed the lamp-bearer up the steep and narrow stairs. She opened a door.
“Here you be,” she said, tartly. “And I hope you'll sleep 'cause I'm precious sure I sha'n't. All I'll see from now till mornin' is Cap'n Jeth gettin' ready to lam that Marietta Hoag one over the top of the head. My Lord of Isrul! Don't talk to ME!”
Cabot regarded her with interest. “What is YOUR name?” he inquired.
“Primrose Cash.”
“Eh? Primrose?”