And John had been so sensible. "Oh, I'm fine, thank
you," he had answered simply, when in the office Roger had asked him about
his new home. So that incident was closed. Already Edith was disinfecting
John's old room to her heart's content, for George was to occupy it now.
She was having the woodwork repainted and a new paper put on the walls. She
had already purchased a small new rug, and a bed and a bureau and one easy
chair, and was making a pair of fresh pretty curtains. All right, let her
do it--if only there could be peace in the house.
With his cravat adjusted and his thick-curling silver hair trim from having
just been cut by "Louis" over at the Brevoort, Roger went comfortably down
to his dinner. Edith greeted him with a smile.
"Deborah's dining out," she said.
"Very well," he replied, "so much the better. We'll go right in--I'm
hungry. And we'll have the evening to ourselves. No big ideas nor problems.
Eh, daughter?" He slipped his hand in hers, and she gave it a little
affectionate squeeze. With John safely out of the way, and not only the
health of her children but their proper schooling assured, Edith was
herself again, placid, sweet and kindly. And dinner that night was a
cheerful meal. Later, in the living room, as Roger contentedly lit his
cigar, Edith gave an appreciative sniff.
"You do smoke such good cigars, father," she said, smiling over her needle.
And glancing up at her daughter, "Betsy, dear," she added, "go and get your
grandfather's evening paper.
Pages:
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258