Part 8 (1/2)

Thus might one say, ”My name was Guelph before I married.”

Mrs. Cook spoke sharply. ”Lucky!” she said. ”Pretty lucky, that young one!”

”Well, I should say so,” echoed Mrs. Swan. ”Aren't you a pretty lucky little boy? Aren't you, aren't you, aren't you?” She rubbed her nose against his.

”Yes, Mrs. Swan.” Mrs. Matson p.r.o.nounced and frowned at Curtis.

He murmured something.

”Ooh-you!” said Mrs. Swan. She rose from her squatting posture. ”I'd like to steal you, in your little sailor-suit, and all!”

”Mother bought that suit for you, didn't she?” asked Mrs. Matson of Curtis. ”Mother bought him all his nice things.”

”Oh, he calls you mother? Now, isn't that sweet!” cried Mrs. Swan.

”Yes, I think it's nice,” said Mrs. Matson.

There was a brisk, sure step on the porch; a key turned in the lock. Mr. Matson was among them.

”Well,” said Mrs. Matson upon seeing her mate. It was her invariable evening greeting to him.

”Ah,” said Mr. Matson. It was his to her.

Mrs. Kerley cooed. Mrs. Swan blinked vivaciously. Mrs. Cook applied her speaking-tube to her ear in the antic.i.p.ation of hearing something good.

”I don't think you've met Mrs. Swan, Albert,” remarked Mrs. Matson. He bowed.

”Oh, I've heard so much about Mr. Matson,” cried Mrs. Swan.

Again he bowed.

”We've been making friends with your dear little boy,” Mrs. Swan said. She pinched Curtis's cheek. ”You sweetie, you!”

”Well, Curtis,” said Mr. Matson, ”haven't you got a good-evening for me?”

Curtis gave his hand to his present father with a weak smile of po liteness. He looked modestly down.

”That's more like it,” summarized Mr. Matson. His parental duties accomplished, he turned to fulfill his social obligations. Boldly he caught up Mrs. Cook's speaking-tube. Curtis watched.

”Getting cooler out,” roared Mr. Matson. ”I thought it would.”

Mrs. Cook nodded. ”That's good!” she shouted.

Mr. Matson pressed forward to open the door for her. He was of generous proportions, and the hall was narrow. One of the b.u.t.tons-of-leisure on his coat-sleeve caught in Mrs. Cook's speaking-tube. It fell, with a startling crash, to the floor, and writhed about.

Curtis's control went. Peal upon peal of high, helpless laughter came from him. He laughed on, against Mrs. Matson's cry of ”Curtis!,” against Mr. Matson's frown. He doubled over with his hands on his little brown knees, and laughed mad laughter.

”Curtis!” bellowed Mr. Matson. The laughter died. Curtis straightened himself, and one last little moan of enjoyment escaped him.

Mr. Matson pointed with a magnificent gesture. ”Upstairs!” he boomed.

Curtis turned and climbed the stairs. He looked small beside the banister.

”Well, of all the-” said Mrs. Matson. ”I never knew him to do a thing like that since he's been here. I never heard him do such a thing!”

”That young man,” p.r.o.nounced Mr. Matson, ”needs a good talking to.”

”He needs more than that,” his spouse said.

Mr. Matson stooped with a faint creaking, retrieved the speaking-tube, and presented it to Mrs. Cook. ”Not at all,” he said in antic.i.p.ation of the thanks which she left unspoken. He bowed.

”Pardon me,” he ordered, and mounted the stairs.

Mrs. Matson moved to the door in the wake of her guests. She was bewildered and, it seemed, grieved.

”I never,” she affirmed, ”never knew that child to go on that way.”

”Oh, children,” Mrs. Kerley a.s.sured her, ”they're funny sometimes -especially a little boy like that. You can't expect so much. My goodness, you'll fix all that! I always say I don't know any child that's getting any better bringing up than that young one-just as if he was your own.”

Peace returned to the breast of Mrs. Matson. ”Oh-goodness!” she said. There was almost a coyness in her smile as she closed the door on the departing.

Pictorial Review, February 1927.

The s.e.xes.

The young man with the scenic cravat glanced nervously down the sofa at the girl in the fringed dress. She was examining her handkerchief; it might have been the first one of its kind she had seen, so deep was her interest in its material, form, and possibilities. The young man cleared his throat, without necessity or success, producing a small, syncopated noise.

”Want a cigarette?” he said.

”No, thank you,” she said. ”Thank you ever so much just the same.”

”Sorry I've only got these kind,” he said. ”You got any of your own?”

”I really don't know,” she said. ”I probably have, thank you.”

”Because if you haven't,” he said, ”it wouldn't take me a minute to go up to the corner and get you some.”

”Oh, thank you, but I wouldn't have you go to all that trouble for anything,” she said. ”It's awfully sweet of you to think of it. Thank you ever so much.”

”Will you for G.o.d's sakes stop thanking me?” he said.

”Really,” she said, ”I didn't know I was saying anything out of the way. I'm awfully sorry if I hurt your feelings. I know what it feels like to get your feelings hurt. I'm sure I didn't realize it was an insult to say 'thank you' to a person. I'm not exactly in the habit of having people swear at me because I say 'thank you' to them.”

”I did not swear at you!” he said.

”Oh, you didn't?” she said. ”I see.”