“I saw that Makepeace woman. She said you were in here.”
“Yes, I’ve been in the house most of the day, except at mail time. I brought my work in here. I rather expected you might come.”
“You did? Why?”
“Oh, because—well, I understand it is squally weather up at your house just now.”
He glanced at her. Then he sat down in the rocker and crossed his knees.
“Esther’s been here, hasn’t she?” he growled. “So here is where she went. Well, I guessed as much.”
“I should think you might. Yes, she was here and ate dinner here, what little she did eat. Foster, you can handle men but you are a dreadful poor hand with women—and always were.”
He snorted. “Damn women!” he exclaimed, fervently.
“Yes, that is what you do, I guess, and it isn’t good policy. Now, if you want to, you can tell me your side of all this rumpus. Esther has told me hers.”
He told it. It was only when he told how and from where he had learned of the portrait painting that she interrupted.