"Either you are crazy, Barbara Archibald, or you think I am. You've
been stuffing me for about a week, and I don't beleive a Word of it. And
you'll apologize to me or I'll never speak to you again."

She said this loudly, and then went away, And Mr. Beecher said, through
the door.

"What the Devil's the row about?"

Perhaps my nerves were going, or possably it was no luncheon and
probably no dinner. But I said, just as if he had been an ordinary
person:

"Go on and write and get through. I can't stew on these steps all day."

"I thought you were an amiable Child."

"I'm not amiable and I'm not a Child."

"Don't spoil your pretty face with frowns."

"It's MY face. And you can't see it anyhow," I replied, venting in
femanine fashion, my anger at Jane on the nearest object.

"Look here," he said, through the door, "you've been my good Angel. I'm
doing more work than I've done in two months, although it was a dirty,
low-down way to make me do it. You're not going back on me now, are
you?"

Well, I was mollafied, as who would not be? So I said: