"Don't be rude!"
"I'm not being rude," replied the other. "I just want to know where
he got his nut ideas."
"Bertie _dear_!" cried the mother, again; and you knew that for
eighteen or nineteen years she had been crying "Bertie _dear_!"--in
a tone in which rebuke was tempered by fatuous maternal admiration.
And all the time, Bertie had gone on doing what he pleased, knowing
that in her secret heart his mother was smiling with admiration of
his masterfulness, taking it as one more symptom of the greatness of
the Stebbins line. I could see him in early childhood, stamping on
the floor and commanding his governess to bring him a
handkerchief--and throwing his shoe at her when she delayed!
Presently it was Luanda's turn. Lucinda, you understand, was in
revolt against the social indignity which her mother had inflicted
upon her. When Carpenter had entered the car, she had looked at him
once, with a deliberate stare, then lifted her chin, ignoring my
effort to introduce him to her. Since then she had sat silent, cold,
and proud.
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