“No. . . . What was it you wanted?”
Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite side of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr. Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had forgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked at it, and sat down in the chair.
“Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?” she asked.
“You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is.”
“Um. I judged he was by”—with a glance at the garment which she still held—“the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'—cleanin' house?”
The young man sighed wearily. “Yes,” he said with forced resignation, “something of that sort.”
“Seein' what there was to eat, I guess.”
“You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think.”
“Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff? Cake?”
She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between her fingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.