"Aunt Rose," asked the secretary, with his friendly intent in his tones, "how came you to look in this morning and say you didn't expect to find me in my room?"
She gave an unintelligible grunt, pushed the lamp to one side, and eased her tray to the table.
Peter finished touching his tie before one of those old-fashioned mirrors, not of cut-glass, yet perfectly true. He came from the mirror and moved his chair, out of force of habit, so he could look up the street toward the Arkwrights'.
"Aunt Rose," said the young man, wistfully, "why are you always angry?"
She bridled at this extraordinary inquiry.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
She hesitated a moment, thinking how she could make her reply a personal assault on Peter.
"'Cause you come heah, 'sputin' my rights, da' 's' why."
"No," demurred Peter, "you were quarreling in the kitchen the first morning I came here, and you didn't know I was on the place."