"I really cannot remain—" she said with decision, but the old lady only bawled:
"Sit down! Sit down!"
"I will not!"
"Sit down!" she roared in a passion. "What the devil——"
Strelsa, a little pale, started to pass her—then halted, astounded: for the old lady had burst into a passion of choking gasps. Whether the terrible sounds she made were due to impotent rage or asthma, Strelsa, confused, shocked, embarrassed, but still angry, had no notion; and while Mrs. Sprowl coughed fatly, she stood still, catching muffled fragments of reproaches directed at people who flouted friendship; who had no consideration for age, and no gratitude, no tenderness, no pity.
"I—I am grateful," faltered Strelsa, "only I cannot——"
"I wanted to be a mother to you! I've tried to be," wheezed the old lady in a fresh paroxysm; and beat the air.
For one swift instant the girl remembered what her real mother had been to her; and her heart hardened.
"I care only for your friendship, Mrs. Sprowl; I do not wish you to do anything for me; can we not be friends on that basis?"
Mrs. Sprowl swabbed her inflamed eyes and peered around the corner of the handkerchief.