Ellen listened with her brooding eyes fixed upon her frothing churn-dash. When the story was fairly told, she offered no word of comment.
"What do you think of that?" asked Dian, anxious to obtain her friend's point of view.
"I don't think anything," Ellen said, at last.
"Why, Ellie, he was dead drunk."
"How could you tell such a thing as that?" asked Ellen, judicially. "What do you or I know about drunken men?"
"Oh, his eyes, and his red face—and—and—everything—" stammered Diantha, confused to be thus put at a disadvantage, and upon the witness-stand. "And there was something so terrible about him every way that I just shuddered when he looked into my eyes."
Still Ellen refused to discuss the matter. Dian persisted:
"You can't think what a fright I was in. If you could have just seen him—"
The sullen listener busied herself with her churn. And at last, she sat down to work over her butter.
"Ellie," coaxed Diantha, "what do you think about the thing, anyway?"