It is doubtful whether Mr. Wrenn would ever have returned to the Zapps’ had he not promised to see Charley there. Even while he was carrying his suit-case down West Sixteenth, broiling by degrees in the sunshine, he felt like rushing up to Charley’s and telling him to come to the hotel instead.
Lee Theresa, taking the day off with a headache, answered the bell, and ejaculated:
“Well! So it’s you, is it?”
“I guess it is.”
“What, are you back so soon? Why, you ain’t been gone more than a month and a half, have you?”
Beware, daughter of Southern pride! The little Yankee is regarding your full-blown curves and empty eyes with rebellion, though he says, ever so meekly:
“Yes, I guess it is about that, Miss Theresa.”
“Well, I just knew you couldn’t stand it away from us. I suppose you’ll want your room back. Ma, here’s Mr. Wrenn back again—Mr. Wrenn! Ma!”
“Oh-h-h-h!” sounded Goaty Zapp’s voice, in impish disdain, below. “Mr. Wrenn’s back. Hee, hee! Couldn’t stand it. Ain’t that like a Yankee!”
A slap, a wail, then Mrs. Zapp’s elephantine slowness on the stairs from the basement. She appeared, buttoning her collar, smiling almost pleasantly, for she disliked Mr. Wrenn less than she did any other of her lodgers.