Mrs. Prymmer subsided after this, and her son and his wife finished their meal in silence.
"Derrice," said Justin, drawing his wife aside before he left the house, "you will find some fruit in your room. Have patience, dear,--the bill of fare will soon improve."
Derrice smiled sweetly under his gentle touch, and when he kissed her, and murmured, "Patient little wife," she blushed with pleasure, and went to the window to watch him going with his slow and measured pace down the different flights of steps to the street.
Mrs. Prymmer meanwhile sat in the dining-room, trembling like a person awaiting doom, and fascinated helplessly by the strangely fiery eye of her cousin.
"Hippolyta Prymmer," he was saying, angrily, "haven't I been boarding in this here house for twenty years?"
"Haven't I paid you out good board money all the time,--eleven dollars a week?"
"Come now,--you've found counterfeit money among it,--there's been a bad quarter, a shady greenback?"
"Then what do you mean by treating me so?"
"Micah," she said, trembling more violently, "I don't know what you mean."
"Ain't you getting old?" he inquired, lashing himself into a yet more violent passion.
"Ain't I getting old? Look at the gray hairs creeping in my head. Look at the tracks of the old crow. Does it stand to reason that my appetite's what it used to be?"
"I haven't noticed any difference, Micah."
"Haven't you?" he exclaimed, in violent sarcasm. "You think I can eat cold meat, cold potatoes, and porridge just like I used to twenty years ago? You've brought me up on it, and you think I can stay on it."
"Well, you've got to think, or you'll see a pair of soles flashing down the street. Does it stand to reason, because you've been brought up on plain food and are tough as door nails on it, that you've got to stick to it?"
"I--I don't know--" and in utter confusion Mrs. Prymmer tried to wonder whether her usually self-possessed cousin was going crazy.
"I've got to clear out," he said, suddenly rising and flinging himself toward the door. "You don't want to please me,--you don't care if I starve to death. I'll go down to the hotel. Good-bye, Hippolyta. If any one dies, send for me, and I'll come to the funeral."
"Micah, stop! stop!" cried the unhappy woman, clinging to him. "I can't spare your board money. Justin's salary isn't large, and my rents are slow coming in, and I've got to keep you. Tell me what I can do?"