“I’ll old woman you if I’ve much of your imperence, my young dandy!” was the somewhat startling rejoinder. “I’ll bundle the pack of you out of the house, that I will, if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your heads.”
“I say, Batchelor,” said Doubleday, laughing, “your aunt has got a temper, I fancy. I’m always sorry to see it in one so young. What will it be when—”
“Oh, please don’t, Doubleday,” I said; “you can see she doesn’t like it. It doesn’t matter, Mrs Nash, thank you,” I added.
“Oh, don’t it matter?” retorted the irate Mrs Nash, “that’s all; we’ll settle that pretty soon, my beauty. I’ll teach you if it don’t matter that a pack of puppies comes into my house, and drinks tea out of my cups, and calls me names before my face and behind my back; I’ll teach you!” And she bounced from the room.
I thought that meal would never end, although no one took anything. In time even the fun and laughter, which had at first helped to keep the thing going, died away, and the fellows lolled back in the chairs in a listless, bored way. It was vain for me to try to lead the talk; I could not have done it even if I had had the spirit, and there was precious little spirit left now!
Doubleday began to look at his watch.
“Half-past seven. I say,” said he, “time I was going. I’ve a particular engagement at eight.”
“Well, I’ll go with you,” said Whipcord; “I want to get something to eat, and we can have supper together.”
“Sorry we’ve got to go,” said Doubleday. “Jolly evening, wasn’t it, Crow?”
I was too much humiliated and disgusted to notice their departure. To have my grand entertainment sneered at and made fun of was bad enough, but for two of my guests to leave my table for the avowed purpose of getting something to eat was a little too much. I could barely be civil to the rest and ask them to remain, and it was a real relief when they one and all began to make some excuse for leaving.