was amused to find that his guest really annoyed him. She had, as a matter of fact, done almost everything which from a New Yorker's point of view is undesirable. In the first place she had been an hour late—irritating to a busy practitioner obliged to take an afternoon train out of town. Then instead of apologizing she had scolded the Hollands for the condition of New York traffic.
“It took me,” she said, “almost half an hour to get here from Thirty-third Street.” The Hollands exchanged a glance, for it was obvious Lilian must have left her hotel already half an hour late. Then she had entered exclaiming, “I hope I haven't missed cocktails.” The Hollands never had cocktails, and certainly would not have had them for lunch. Jessie could not help saying, “You know, Lilian, you wouldn't dream of taking a cocktail at home.”
Their visitor was not a bit ashamed, and answered, “Oh, no, of course not, but in New York”
That was the keynote—New York, the prices, the crowds, the cabarets, the violation of law, the indecency of the theaters—Jessie and the doctor grew weary of saying, “I never go to such places—I haven't seen it—I never heard of her—I don't get my clothes at those notorious robbers”
Lilian evidently regarded them as entirely beneath her in luxury and fashion and in knowledge of the world. It was annoying to find that she regarded herself as their superior in all the domestic virtues as well.
She was leaving town soon after luncheon, and Jessie said to her, with a trace of irony in her tone, “I suppose you're crazy to get away from it all and go home.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lilian, looking at her new hat in the mirror with the intensity of a hunting-dog pointing game. “Oh, yes, indeed. Do you like this hat? Not expensive—only fifty-five dollars.”
“I never paid more than twenty-five for a hat in my life,” said Jessie.
“Oh, my dear, nonsense! Where can you get them for that price in New York?” But the question was purely rhetorical, for, like Pontius Pilate, she did not stay for an answer, but returned to the original thesis.
“Yes, indeed, I'm crazy to get back to Charlie and the children I did try to change my reservations until to-morrow and see that new show, 'Classic Crime'—they say it's almost certain to be raided, and that would be a story to take home, wouldn't it? but I couldn't change, and so Oh, yes, I long to get home. I see so much of my children—I'm not like you New York women who just have their children brought in to say good morning and good night. Mine lunch with me every day of their lives. I can't imagine bringing children up in New York—poor little pasty things! But then, of course my idea of a home is a big house and open fires”
It was a triumph of self-control that they allowed her to sink from their view in the elevator without telling her that the only reason why the three Holland children had not lunched with their parents that day was because the guest had been so late.
As soon as she had gone the exiled children came rushing in to say good-by to their father—handsome young creatures of the best pink-and-gold variety—two boys and a girl ranging from twelve to six.
“Good-by, sir,” said the elder boy, getting a certain sense of dignity out of this new form of address. He was off to the school football-field.
“By, Pops,” said the second boy, very easy and casual, because he was obliged to go back to school and do a task, and he hoped his father would get away without knowing it.
“Bring back lots of bread and butter,” said the girl, springing straight at his neck, and burying his nose in the dry, fluffy smell of her hair. She knew, of course, that he did not bring back bread and butter, and even in the long-ago days when she did believe it she had always considered bread and butter a paltry reward for his labors; but she used the expression as a friendly convention. She was about to go to the park for the afternoon, where she was exercising her will-to-power by gradually becoming the leader of a group of well-dressed ruffians of her own age who met daily in the mall.
When they had gone Jessie went and packed her husband's bag. They had been desperately poor when they were first married—he was just back from studying abroad—and in those days she had done everything for him—cooked and dusted and taken his notes and answered his telephone. Now she still packed his bag for no other reason than that she liked to do it.