Part 8 (1/2)
”He only got seventy in manual training.”
”Tell them things to your father, Edwin; I 'ain't got the say-so.”
”His father's only a bookkeeper, too, and they live 'way up on a Hundred and Forty-fourth near Third.”
”I'm willing to scrimp and save for it, Edwin; but in the end I haven't got the say-so, and you know it.”
”The boys that are going to college got to register now for the High School College Society.”
”Your father, Edwin, is the one to tell that to.”
”Other fellers' mothers put in a word for 'em.”
”I do, Edwin; you know I do! It only aggravates him--There's papa now, Edwin, coming in. Help mamma dish up. Put this soup at papa's place and this at yours. There's only two plates left from last night.”
In Mrs. Ross's dining-room, a red-gla.s.s dome, swung by a chain over the round table, illuminated its white napery and decently flowered china.
Beside the window looking out upon a gray-brick wall almost within reach, a canary with a white-fluted curtain about the cage dozed headless. Beside that window, covered in flowered chintz, a sewing-machine that could collapse to a table; a golden-oak sideboard laid out in pressed gla.s.sware.
A homely simplicity here saved by chance or chintz from the simply homely.
Mr. Harry Ross drew up immediately beside the spread table, jerking open his newspaper and, head thrown back, read slantingly down at the head-lines.
”h.e.l.lo, pop!”
”h.e.l.lo, son!”
”Watch out!”
”Hah--that's the stuff! Don't spill!”
He jammed the newspaper between his and the chair back, shoving in closer to the table. He was blond to as.h.i.+ness, so that the slicked-back hair might or might not be graying. Pink-shaved, unlined, nose-gla.s.ses polished to sparkle, he was ten years his wife's senior and looked those ten years younger. Clerks and clergymen somehow maintain that youth of the flesh, as if life had preserved them in alcohol or shaving-lotion. Mrs. Ross entered then in her crisp but faded house dress, her round, intent face still moistly pink, two steaming dishes held out.
He did not rise, but reached up to kiss her as she pa.s.sed.
”Burnt your soup a little to-night, mother.”
She sat down opposite, breathing deeply outward, spreading her napkin out across her lap.
”It was Edwin coming in from school and getting me worked up with his talk about--about--”
”What?”
”Nothing. Edwin, run out and bring papa the paprika to take the burnt taste out. I turned all the cuffs on your s.h.i.+rts to-day, Harry.”
”Lordy! if you ain't fixing at one thing, you're fixing another.”
”Anything new?”
He was well over his soup now, drinking in long draughts from the tip of his spoon.