There was no doubt about Ellen's being at home. The few
feet of back yard were full of white garments of unlovely shape,
recently washed and fluttering in the breeze. The very atmosphere was
full of soapsuds. Ellen herself opened the door to him, her skirts
pinned up around her, and a clothes-peg in her mouth.
He greeted her with an effort at pleasantness. "Good morning, Ellen,"
he said. "I am glad to find you at home. May I come in?"
Ellen removed the clothes-peg from her mouth.
"It's your own house, isn't it?" she replied, with a suspicious little
quiver in her tone. "I don't suppose you've forgotten your way into the
parlor. Keep well away from me or you may get some soapsuds on your
fine clothes."
She raised her red arms above her head and flattened herself against the
wall with elaborate care. Burton, hating himself and the whole
situation, stepped into the parlor. Ellen followed him as far as the
threshold.
"What is it you want?" she demanded, still retaining one foot in the
passage. "I'm busy. You haven't forgotten that it's Friday morning,
have you?"
"I want to talk to you for a little while," he said, gently. "I have
something to propose which may improve our relations.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117