"From an early grave, no doubt," said Missy, fanning herself, and giving Mr. McKenzie another glass of water, while he was looking amazed from Mrs. Varian to her sister-in-law. He was still quite incapable of helping himself.
"If he has apoplexy, it will be on my conscience," thought Missy. So, after the discussion, she signalled the waitress to open a window near. This was quietly done, and Miss Varian never knew it, not being as sensitively organized as she thought she was. In the meanwhile, something had come on the table which had to be carved, and it had been put before Mr. Andrews.
"This is a hard case," said the host, "but a man with 'never a hand' can't carve. McKenzie, I believe I must put it upon you."
This was exactly the last straw. The wretched man actually gasped. He writhed, he tried to speak.
"Can't Melinda?" said Missy, quite forgetting that it wasn't her place to make suggestions. She felt sure Mr. Andrews had not seen the purple shade of Mr. McKenzie's complexion.
"Melinda has no gift," said Mr. Andrews. "I have tried her more than once, but she can't carve."
"Then let me try," cried Missy, springing up. "You'll see I have a gift."
"Missy!" murmured her mother, deprecatingly, at this boldness. She evidently had not seen the state the guest was in.
"Mamma," cried Missy, "you know I've had to carve, and make tea, and do a hundred things that didn't belong to me, ever since I was twelve years old, and now you blame me for wanting to show off my accomplishments, when I'm quite of a proper age to display them. I've been imposed on by the family all my life, and now—the ingratitude of republics."
As Missy finished her speech, she stood by Mr. Andrews, who had reluctantly got up, and was glancing rather sternly at his friend.