"I don't understand," said Madigan, feeling called upon to say something that was not vituperative at his own dinner-table. "You could never have seen a note of Sissy's, Mr. Morgan?"
"Never." The savior lied like a gentleman.
But he was mistaken if he supposed that he had placated Cecilia. She would not even meet his eyes, those eyes that twinkled so enjoyingly.
The savior tried Irene.
"You and I have hair the same color," he said genially. "I hope your temper isn't like mine, too."
"I hope not," she answered stiffly.
He laughed again, that big, amused laugh. Split's eyes shot fire. Evidently the Madigans were funnier than they knew.
"Now, I wonder," he said, "would that be a compliment or a confession?"
"Irene is trying and succeeding better every day in gaining self-control," interposed Aunt Anne, with hasty amiability. To discuss Irene's temper in committee of the whole, like that—the temerity of the man! "Won't you have some more mutton?" she pressed. "It's wash-day, you know, and it's just a pick-up dinner; but we're so glad to have you, if you'll excuse—"
"The apology's due from me, you know," he interrupted. "And the good fortune's mine, too. Fancy me dining the evening of my arrival at that brick barn they call the hotel down yonder! It will be hard enough when I really have to live there."