Mrs. Eaton had closed the door on her children, and came and stood by a little silver-cluttered table, under the big yellow lamp. “I think Robert is quite right,” she said.
The approval of this mild creature was like an edge laid against the tense thread of Robert Blair’s anger. He burst into a laugh.
“Bless your heart, Lydia, I didn’t know you were in the room. Well, my dear, I’m glad you approve of me.”
“I don’t, brother.”
“Oh, you don’t? Where are the chicks? Sent them out of the room because I used bad words? Well, I oughtn’t to swear in the drawing-room, that’s a fact. Place aux Dames! But after all, I only dropped the ‘place.’”
“Oh!” his wife said; and then, “you are very naughty;” and pouted, and pulled him down on his knees beside her.
“I thought it was very natural to be angry at the rug,” Mrs. Eaton said breathlessly; “I’ve often felt like speaking that way myself”—
“Do, Lydia, do!” Mr. Blair interrupted, with a laugh.
“—but Mr. Eaton would never have allowed the children to hear, and”—
“Come, now! Haven’t I apologized? Don’t rub it in. I’ll give you something extra to put in the plate on Sunday, because I did pitch into your man Hudson like the devil! I told him so long as he spent ‘blood-money’ for his darned improvements, he couldn’t reproach me for earning it.”