Porteus Carmagee sat motionless for a moment, his legs tucked under his chair, his brown face suggestive of the ugliness of some carved mediæval corbel.
“I flatter myself that I recognize the inspiring spirit, Kate,” he said, at last.
“Betty Steel.”
“That’s the lady; we have learned to respect our capabilities, Mrs. Betty—and I.”
He pushed his chair back, established himself on the hearth-rug, and began the habitual rattling of his bunch of keys.
“Well, Kate, you want me to act for you.”
“If you will.”
“If I will? My dear girl, don’t insult my affection for you all. I must confess that I like to feel vindictive when I undertake a case. No city dinner could have made me more irritable, vulpine, and liverish in your service.”
Catherine’s eyes thanked him sufficiently, but they were still brimming with questioning unrest.
“Porteus, tell me what you think.”