"I want to quarrel with him the minute I
see him. He--he is presumptuous to the point of impertinence--but he's
honest: he thinks we're all hypocrites--those that are well and those
that are sick or think they are--and he hates hypocrisy."
Everybody talked at once, then, and she listened.
"Very well," she said. "I'll amend it. We're not all hypocrites. My
motives in all this are perfectly clear--and selfish."
"You and old Pierce would make a fine team, Pat," Mrs. Dick remarked
with a yawn. "I like hypocrites myself. They're so comfy. But if you're
not above advice, Pat, you'll have Aunt Honoria break her neck or
something--anything to get father back to town. Something is going to
explode, and Oskar doesn't like to be agitated."
She curled up on the cot with that and went sound asleep. The rest of us
had coffee and talked, but there wasn't anything to do. As Mr. Sam said,
Mr. Pierce didn't want to stay, anyhow, and as likely as not if we went
to him in a body and told him he must come to the shelter-house for
instructions, and be suave and gentle when he was called down by the
guests about the steam-pipes making a racket, he'd probably prefer to go
down to the village and take Doctor Barnes' place washing dishes at the
station. That wouldn't call for any particular mildness.
But he settled it by appearing himself. He came across the snow from the
direction of Mount Hope, and he had a pair of skees over his shoulder.
(At that time I didn't even know the name of the things, but I learned
enough about them later.
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