“Last night!” cried Annie. “Why in the world didn't you let me know?”
“I didn't know as you wanted to know,” began Mrs. Bolton, with a sullen defiance mixed with pleasure in Annie's reproach. “He was out there in my settin'-room with his little girl.”
“But don't you see that if you didn't let me know he was here it would look to him as if I didn't wish to meet him—as if I had told you that you were not to introduce him?”
Probably Mrs. Bolton believed too that a man's mind was agile enough for these conjectures; but she said she did not suppose he would take it in that way; she added that he stayed longer than she expected, because the little girl seemed to like it so much; she always cried when she had to go away.
“Do you mean that she's attached to the place?” demanded Annie.
“Well, yes, she is,” Mrs. Bolton admitted. “And the cat.”
Annie had a great desire to tell Mrs. Bolton that she had behaved very stupidly. But she knew Mrs. Bolton would not stand that, and she had to content herself with saying, severely, “The next time he comes, let me know without fail, please. What is the child like?” she asked.
“Well, I guess it must favour the mother, if anything. It don't seem to take after him any.”
“Why don't you have it here often, then,” asked Annie, “if it's so much attached to the place?”
“Well I didn't know as you wanted to have it round,” replied Mrs. Bolton bluntly.