“Poor donkey! I told him what I thought of that woman—called by my name, too—a woman dressing like one of those yellow East Indian dancing-girls—that’s what I told him.”
“Johnson!”
“I did! What do you s’pose the congregation thought? By George, it made me hot all over. Did you see her legs?”
“You mean her stockings? They were a little startling. I told her so before we started.”
“Startling? My word.”
Mr. Carter relapsed into a terrible silence. Mrs. Carter sat helplessly looking at him. She was thinking of that dance, that terrible, amazing, dazzling dance. What a pretty creature, too! That was it; she had turned William’s head; and Leigh’s and Emily’s, too. Those painted eyelashes! For a moment Mrs. Carter half laughed.
“It’s funny—I can’t help it, Johnson,” she said, feebly apologetic, as she met his irate eyes. “I was thinking of Emmy trying to paint her lashes.”
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he retorted hoarsely. “Don’t see the joke myself. I’ve got too much daughter-in-law, that’s my trouble!”
“Hush! There’s some one now—they’ve come!” Mrs. Carter tiptoed to the door and listened, coming back, relieved. “No, it’s only Dan.”
“I wish William had Dan’s sense!”