Читать книгу Otherwise Phyllis - Meredith Nicholson - Страница 9

"Oh, no, you don't! You haven't a cent that belongs to me, and you know it, you splendid old fraud. And don't you try that game on me again or I'll stop speaking to you."

"Do you mean—" he began to bluster; "do you mean to say that I don't know my own business? Do you think I'm going to steal money from your grandfather's estate to give you? Why—"

"You weren't born to adorn the front row of successful liars, Amy. And even if you had a million or two lying round loose, you couldn't give me a cent of it; I wouldn't take it. It wouldn't be square to daddy; daddy's a gentleman, you know, and I couldn't do anything meaner than to take your money to pay his debts with. So there, you old dear, I've a good notion to muss you up, after all."

He again put the table between them, and stood puffing from the unwonted haste with which he had eluded her grasp. He had managed the matter badly, and as his hand, thrust into his coat pocket, touched a check he had written and placed there as a preliminary to this interview, a sheepish expression crossed his face.

"Well," he blurted, "I'd like to know what in thunder you're going to do! I tell you it's yours by right. I ought to have given it to you long ago."

"I'm skipping," said Phil, reaching down to button her raincoat. "We're going to Rose's for tea."

"Tea?"

Amzi's emphasis implied that in tea lay the sole importance of Phil's announcement; and yet, subjected to even the most superficial analysis, Mr. Montgomery's sensations were not in the least attributable to the thought of tea. Tea in the sense intended by Phil was wholly commonplace—a combination of cold meat, or perhaps of broiled chicken, with hot biscuits, and honey or jam, or maybe canned peaches with cream. Considered either as a beverage or as a meal, tea contained no thrill; and yet perhaps the thought of tea at Miss Rose Bartlett's aroused in Amzi Montgomery's breast certain emotions which were concealed by his explosive emphasis. Phil, turning up the collar of her mackintosh, reaffirmed the fact of tea.

"You never come to my house for just tea, but you go to Rose's. You're always going to Rose's for tea," boomed Amzi.

"Daddy likes to go," added Phil, moving toward the door.

"I suppose he does," remarked Amzi, a little absently.

"By-by, Amy. Thanks, just the same, anyhow."

"Good-night, Phil!"

Phil lingered, her hand on the knob.

"Come over yourself, after tea. There may be music. Daddy keeps his 'cello over there, you know."

"His 'cello?"

It seemed that 'cello, like tea, was a word of deep significance. Amzi glared at Phil, who raised her head and laughed.

"Nonsense!" he ejaculated, though it was not clear just wherein the nonsense lay.

"Oh, your old flute is over there, too," said Phil, not without scorn.

Having launched this she laughed again and the door closed upon her with a bang. She hammered the glass with her knuckles to attract his attention, flung back her head as she laughed again, and vanished.

Amzi stared at the door's rain-splashed pane. The world was empty now that Phil had gone. He drew down the shabby green blind with a jerk and prepared to go home.