"Roger!" he repeats, in an accent of keen pleasure, catching me to his heart; "what! I am Roger, after all, am I? The 'general' has gone to glory at last, has he?—thank God!"
"I will ring and tell John at once," say I, with subtile amiability, disengaging myself from his arms, and walking quickly toward the bell.
"Stay!" he says, putting his hand on me in detention, before I have made two steps; "you must not! it is no use! John will not do, or William either: it is a matter of business. I have" (sighing) "to go through many of these papers with her."
"You?"
"Yes, I; why is that so surprising?"
"What possible concern is it of yours?" ask I, throwing the reins on the neck of my indignation, and urging that willing steed to a sharp gallop, crimsoning as I speak, and raising my voice, as has ever been our immemorial wont in home-broils. "For my part, I never saw any good come of people putting their fingers into their neighbors' pies!"
"Not even if those neighbors are the oldest friends they have in the world?" he says, gently, yet eying with some wonder—perhaps apprehension, for odd things frighten men—the small scarlet scold who stands swelling with ruffled feathers, and angry eyes, winking to keep the tears out of them, before him.
"I thought father was the oldest friend you had in the world!" say I, with a jealous tartness; "you always used to tell us so."
"Some of my oldest friends, then," he answers, looking a little amused, "since you will have me so exact."
"If Mrs. Huntley is the oldest friend you have in the world," say I, acrimoniously, still sticking to his first and most offensive form of expression, and heavily accenting it, "I wonder that you never happened to mention her existence before you went."