Foster Townsend paid no attention to the flow of language. He took the packet of letters and papers and thrust it into the pocket of his ulster, and, pushing the speaker unceremoniously out of the way, leaned through the window and addressed the postmistress.
“Reliance,” he said.
Miss Clark, already tidying up the little room preparatory to closing for the night, looked over her shoulder.
“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”
“Come here a minute. I want to speak to you.”
Reliance finished brushing the counter before she complied. Then, pushing her half-brother a little farther from the window, she stepped to the place he had occupied. Millard accepted the push with as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. It was no novelty; he was pushed out of some one’s way at least a dozen times a day.
“Well?” queried Reliance, briskly. Her tone in addressing Ostable County’s first citizen was precisely that which she used when addressing others less consequential. Of the two, it was Foster Townsend who seemed embarrassed, and embarrassment was not usual with him.
“Is—is that niece of yours in the house?” he asked.
For just an instant Reliance hesitated. She was regarding him intently.
“I suppose likely she is,” she said. “Why?”