Powder and paint, and her clever selection of a modiste, had given Carlotta a certain sort of flashy smartness, but after all, under the skin she was "a tough little kyke," as she had often been called. But not the whole of her. She really loved the boy in her way, or wanted him—which amounts to the same thing. Ordinarily she would have reverted to type, and had a most distinct "mad on," as they used to say in the old days of her childhood, when she bit and fought and scratched her way on the Street of Pushcarts and Old Clothes; and an impudent retort, such as "you poor old boob" (it was that in that year) would have issued from her lips, and she might also have jabbed a hatpin into the screaming cook. Because she really did care in her way for the boy, and did not want to further antagonize the father, she did none of these things. She simply said—"You've got me wrong, Mr. Huntington, you'll find out some day," then "bye, bye, Phil," and walked a little stagily, but with at least an approach to dignity, out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the front door. She refrained even from banging that.
Just as it closed, every light in the house went out.
In the darkness, Philip called
"Dad, that arm!"
The lights went up, and there was no trace of any one, ghost, demon, or human soul. But they heard a sound as of a displaced shingle, and running to the window, saw ten fingers curled around the gutter, as though the owner of them were suspended below, calculating the drop.
