A. H. Well, it’s downright dishonorable treatment, after the letter you sent me to-day.
O. R. (surprised). I haven’t sent you any letter.
A. H. (taking it from pocket). Didn’t you write that valentine?
O. R. (glancing over it). I never saw it before; and, between you and me, I don’t think it was intended for you.
A. H. Do you mean to insult me by saying I open other folks’ letters?
O. R. Not exactly, but I think this was written to your niece. It aint the kind o’ valentine one would be likely to send to a person of your age.
A. H. (in a high tone). You mean to twit me about my age, do you? I’ll just let you know that I’m six years younger than Mehitable Trumbull. But I won’t listen to any more of your insultin’ remarks; so just leave this house, or I’ll call somebody to help you.
O. R. It’s lucky I didn’t offer to marry you, as you asked me to. I see your temper hasn’t improved any since we used to go to singing-school together.
(Exit O. R., L. A. H., almost frantic, paces back and forth.)
A. H. The villain! to treat me so. But it’s lucky none of the folks know anything about it. I must change my dress before any of them come in.