“Oh, it’s Robert always!” sneered Trafton. “He is an angel, is he? He’s only done his duty. Haven’t I given him the shelter of my roof?”
“You haven’t given him much else,” retorted his wife.
“I’ve heard enough of that; now shut up,” said the fisherman roughly. “What have you got for breakfast?”
Mrs. Trafton pointed to the table, on which, while her husband had been speaking, she had placed his breakfast.
“Humph!” said he discontentedly, “that’s a pretty poor breakfast!”
“It is the best I can give you,” said his wife coldly.
“I don’t care for tea. I’d as soon drink slops.”
“What do you prefer?”
“I prefer coffee.”
“I have none in the house. If you will bring me home some from the store, I will make you a cup every morning, but I don’t think you would like it without milk.”