He turned aggressively on Joyce. “Did you get me them black gloves? Now, don't give me no fairy tales, for I know durn well from your looks you didn't.”
“I'll get them for you the first thing in the morning, Jeffy.”
Jeffy brandished his fork angrily in the air.
“I never seen such a slip-shod way of doing things. I'd like to know what sort of a funeral it's going to be if I don't get them black gloves. It'll be a failure. Yes, sir, the durndest sort of a failure! All the Chris Berrys in the world can't save it. I declare I don't see why I got to have all this ornery worry. It ain't my funeral!”
“Hush, Jeffy!” said Mrs. Joyce. “You mustn't take on so.”
“Why don't he get me them gloves?” And he glared fiercely at the meek figure of the little artist. Then suddenly he subsided. “Reach me the pie, Ruthy.”
Mrs. Joyce turned nervously to her husband.
“Aren't you going to show Mr. Oakley your pictures, Turner?”
“Would you care to see them?” with some trepidation.
“If you will let me,” with a grave courtesy that was instinctive.