“I cannot stop now,” said Phronsie.
Mrs. Bayley reserved her anger, and picked up her novel, until her husband sauntered up. Then she turned on him furiously from her steamer-chair.
“Livingston,” she said, forgetting to drawl, “it is perfectly preposterous in Phronsie Pepper to go on so. I don’t see what Mr. King is thinking of to allow it.”
“Oh, I don’t have anything to do with Phronsie Pepper,” declared Mr. Bayley, in a very bad temper, and sitting down, after carefully adjusting the creases along his trousers legs, “don’t you know; so what is the use of pitching into a fellow, Celestine.”
“In all our conversation, I have observed you are always very cross if I allude to the Peppers in any way. It is extremely uncomfortable for me, Livingston, to have you assume such an attitude toward me.”
“Now, Celestine,” said Mr. Bayley, rolling a fresh cigarette, “the Peppers are perfectly well able to take care of themselves.”
Mr. Bayley said something way down in his throat, and got out of his steamer-chair for a turn or two on deck.
“Now, Celestine,” he said, coming back and rolling a fresh cigarette as he stood over her, “I want you to understand, once for all, that I’m not going to be drawn into collision with the Peppers, don’t you know. They are perfectly well able to take care of themselves; and I wouldn’t advise you to try it on, either.”
“She has no mother with her, or”—