“I don’t want to think of him as my brother. For goodness sake if you want me to have any peace turn him out of the house.”
“Letitia,” said John, “in most things you have your own way, and if you like to do a nasty thing yourself I never interfere; but as for turning your brother out of my house——”
“I’m ready to give up even my own comfort to your brother,” she said.
John stood for a moment feeling that there was something strained in the parallel—but not quite clever enough to perceive what it was. “Oh, as for that!” he said vaguely. Then he gave it up, the puzzle being too much for him. “And so would I,” he said, “do a great deal to please you, Letitia—but I can’t turn a man out of my house. If you have nothing more to say than that, I’ll go and tell those fellows about the birds.”
Letitia sat clenching her hands to keep in her wrath until he had closed the door, and his heavy foot sounded remote and far off as he went down the stairs. She then turned to Mary, who had made several attempts to go away, but had been retained by a gesture more and more imperative at every move she made. “Mary, I hope you know how much you owe me,” she said.
“You have been very—kind, Letitia—” said Mary faltering.
“You’ve been no expense to your father and mother for a whole year, not even for dress—you know there’s not many friends would do that.”
Mary hung her head and made no reply. She had not the courage to say that she had done something in return—scarcely even to think so, being very humble-minded—and yet—It was not generous to remind her so often of what was done for her, and the gratitude thus called for would not form itself into words.
“Well, now, you must do something for me. You must get Ralph out of this house.”
“I!” said Mary, in dismay.