She turned like a shot and jerked the door open. There was a rattle, a series of thumps, and a crash. Lute was sprawling upon the floor at our feet. I gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Dorinda sniffed scornfully.
“I might have known it,” she repeated. “Sittin' on the stairs there, listenin', wan't you?”
Lute raised himself to his knees.
“I think,” he panted, “I—I swan! I shouldn't wonder if I'd broke my leg!”
“Um-hm! Well, if you'd broke your neck 'twouldn't have been no more'n you deserve. Shame on you! Sneakin' thing!”
“Now, Dorindy, I—I wan't listenin'. I was just—”
“Don't talk to me. Don't you open your mouth. And if you open it to anybody else about what you heard I'll—I declare I'll shut you up in the dark closet and keep you there, as if you was three year old. Sometimes I think your head ain't any older than that. Go right out of this house.”
“But where'll I go?”
“I don't care where you go. Only don't let me set eyes on you till dinner time. March!”
Lute backed away as she advanced, waving both his hands and pleading and expostulating.