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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Cold lamb " he cackled, "I heard you say cold lamb " "Very well, Uncle Peter," said Mrs. Alden tapping her pointed patent leather toe impatiently, "we won't argue. I'll pay the woman and she can go." Uncle Peter's head dropped pitifully, his bravado ceased abruptly, he became a whining child. "Don't go, Miss Whadda-you-call-it I want to finish the game. She can pay you but don't go.
Felicia asked with a curious upward inflection. In the exasperated silence the invalid's voice quavered out to them. "Miss Whadda-you-call-it! Call that woman back here, Miss Grant!" She stepped to his door. "I wish you'd come around sometimes," he asked her pleadingly, "I do admire a good game of chess and it's my house, I tell you, this is my house, even Clara can't say this isn't my house!"
"Miss Whadda-you-call-it," he retorted, "you go right over there by my desk open the bottom drawer there's chessmen and a board. I've been looking for four years for somebody who had sense enough to play chess." Babiche trotted at her heels, sniffing at all the new odors about her. Felicia moved easily, she got the chess men, went and brought back her lap-board and sat patiently at the bedside.
"Well, well, Miss Whadda-you-call-it," he was growing more peevish. "You'll have to find something for me " Her smooth hand stretched toward him as quickly as a prestidigitator's, with the glass of orange juice. He was too surprised to do anything save drink it, gulping it throatily and handing back the glass with a grunt.
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