XI
The year, in the immemorial, minute shifting of season, grew brittle and cold; the dusk fell sooner and night lingered late into morning.
William Vibard moved with his accordion from the porch to beside the kitchen stove. He was in the throes of a new piece, McGinty, and Gordon Makimmon was correspondingly surprised when, as he was intent upon some papers, Rose’s husband voluntarily relinquished his instrument, and sat in the room with him.
“What’s the matter,” Gordon indifferently inquired; “is she busted?”
William Vibard indignantly repudiated that possibility. A wave of purpose rose to the long, corrugated countenance, but sank, without finding expression in speech. Finally Gordon heard Rose calling her husband. That young man twitched in his chair, but he made no other move, no answer. Her voice rose again, sharp and urgent, and Gordon observed:
“Your wife’s a-calling.”
“I heard her, but I’d ruther sit right where I am.”
She appeared in the doorway, flushed and angry.
“William,” she commanded, “you come straight out here to the kitchen. I got a question for you.”