"Well, really," she began, "I think that's the most impudent thing that I have ever had any one do in my house! What do you think I hired you for?"
For a full minute it did not occur to Felicia that the woman was addressing her. And when she knew, she rose slowly, even carefully, so as not to upset the chess-men.
"For two dollars a day—and lunch—" she answered clearly. She hadn't the remotest idea of being impertinent. She was merely literal. The only thing that saved her from Mrs. Alden's mounting wrath was the old man's voice chuckling from his pillows.
"And—" he looked triumphantly at his angry niece-in-law's snapping eyes, "she had to steal the lunch, by the Jumping Jehosophat, she had to steal her lunch! Why don't you feed people, Clara—why don't you?"
"She had a good lunch, I'm sure I instructed the cook to give her a lunch—"
With the annoying cunning of the old he contradicted her. He dearly loved a row with the mistress of the household.
"Cold lamb—" he cackled, "I heard you say cold lamb—"
"Very well, Uncle Peter," said Mrs. Alden tapping her pointed patent leather toe impatiently, "we won't argue. I'll pay the woman and she can go."
Uncle Peter's head dropped pitifully, his bravado ceased abruptly, he became a whining child.
"Don't go, Miss Whadda-you-call-it—I want to finish the game. She can pay you but don't go. It's my house, isn't it?" he fretfully interrogated the nurse, "I guess it's my house yet even if I am half dead. I'm not all dead yet, not by a long shot—"