"You—you going?"
"Why, yes. You have never objected."
"But I do now."
"Very well," she replied, beginning to pull at her gloves.
"Tom," cried the Senator, "what the devil—I mean the deuce—is the matter with you?"
And then Aunt Patsey broke out, jumping from her chair and shaking her finger at Estell: "You are trying to smother the God-given spirit of that child, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You hate to see her run—you want to see her dodder about like an old man. What earthly harm can there be in her going fox-hunting? Better men than you ever dared be have chased foxes and have let their wives go, too. Don't you dare say a word to me—don't you dare!"
Estell turned about and strode with sullen step to the foot of the stairs, the Senator passing him without saying a word. I was standing at the door, and I stepped aside to let Mrs. Estell pass, but she lingered in the parlor, as if to speak to her aunt, as if, in truth, she would put her arms about the old woman's neck; and I turned my back, to face the State Treasurer, standing at the foot of the stairs. Our eyes met, but he was silent, and I had nothing to say. Mrs. Estell came out into the hall, but returned almost instantly to the old woman, and Estell trod wearily to the upper floor. His wife came out, and she looked up with duty's self-conscious smile.
"May I speak a word?" I asked. "Just one?"
"Two," she answered.
"I promised to read my play to you."