When his sisters arrived, Amzi rose with the nice courtesy that lay in him and placed chairs for them about the table. Then panting from his exertion he pulled a cigar from his waistcoat and dry-smoked it. They were unwontedly grave, suggesting the gloom of a committee appointed to perfect funeral arrangements for a poor relation.
"You have talked to Phil about the party, I suppose," said Mrs. Waterman.
"I have: I most certainly have, Josie," replied Amzi, sighing heavily.
"And she's going to do what we want?"
Amzi tilted his head to one side reflectively, and took the cigar from his mouth.
"She's going to stand for the party, if that's what you mean; but as to doing what you want on general principles, I'm not so dead sure."
"It was your duty, Amzi, to go into the matter thoroughly—to lay down the law to her," observed Mrs. Fosdick.
"All right," nodded Amzi. "In the words of the poet, I done it. But Phil doesn't need lectures."
"Doesn't need them?" sniffed Mrs. Fosdick. "That poor child couldn't have a lecture too many. She always pulls the wool over your eyes. It's right and proper for us to know just what she said when you told her she had to stop running round so much and act like a respectable well-brought-up girl."
"You're a lot of silly geese about Phil—all of you," declared Amzi, bringing his gaze to bear upon them seriatim. "Phil is far from being a fool, and there's a heart in her as big as the court-house. We don't appreciate her; we're always nagging her and trying to reform her."