“Yes, I know; but I don't care. I have had that bully supper, anyhow. He can't alter that. And, say, Charlotte.”
“What?” asked Charlotte, severely. “I am ashamed of you, Eddy.”
“I don't see why papa don't get a store, like him”—he jerked an expressive shoulder towards the scent of the cigar smoke—“and then we could have things as good as they do.”
But then Charlotte turned on him with fierceness none the less intense, although necessarily subdued. “Eddy Carroll,” she whispered, with a long-drawn sibilance, “to turn on your father, a man like papa! Eddy Carroll! Poor papa does the best he can, always, always.”
“I suppose he does,” said Eddy, quite loudly. “My, Charlotte, you needn't act as if you were going to bite a feller. I've had enough of—”
“What?” asked Charlotte.
“Nothing,” said Eddy. His arm was paining him quite severely. It had been quite an ordeal for him to manage his knife and fork at supper without betrayal.
“What were you going to say?” persisted Charlotte.
“Nothing,” said Eddy, doggedly—“nothing at all. Don't act so fierce, Charlotte. It isn't lady-like. Amy never speaks so awful quick.”
Charlotte began putting on her hat, which had been left on the sitting-room table. “I am ashamed of you,” she whispered again. “I was ashamed of you all tea-time.”