Bartley broke into a helpless laugh at Morrison's final failure on a word difficult to sober tongues, and the latter went on: “No 'casion for bad feeling on either side. All I want know is what you mean.”
“Well, go on!” cried Bartley, good-naturedly, and he sat down in his chair, which he tilted back, and, clasping his hands behind his head, looked up into Morrison's face. “What do I mean by what?”
Probably Morrison had not expected to be categorical, or to bring anything like a bill of particulars against Bartley, and this demand gave him pause. “What you mean,” he said, at last, “by always praising her up so?”
“What I said. She's a very good girl, and a very bright one. You don't deny that?”
“No—no matter what I deny. What—what you lend her all them books for?”
“To improve her mind. You don't object to that? I thought you once thanked me for taking an interest in her.”
“Don't you mind what I object to, and what I thank you for,” said Morrison, with dignity. “I know what I'm about.”
“I begin to doubt. But get on. I'm in a great hurry this morning,” said Bartley.
Morrison seemed to be making a mental examination of his stock of charges, while the strain of keeping his upright position began to tell upon him, and he swayed to and fro against the door. “What's that word you sent her by my boy, Sat'day night?”
“That she was a smart girl, and would be sure to get on if she was good—or words to that effect. I trust there was no offence in that, Mr. Morrison?”