Family -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Social conditions -- Fiction
Her father smote his paper. "What did she tell you about him?" he asked.
"Not much more than she told you. His parents are dead--but he has a rich
widowed aunt in Bridgeport who adores him. They mean to be married the end
of May. She wants a church wedding, bridesmaids, ushers--the wedding
reception here, of course--"
"Oh, Lord," breathed Roger dismally.
"We won't bother you much, father dear--"
"You _will_ bother me much," he retorted. "I propose to be
bothered--bothered a lot! I'm going to look up this fellow Sloane--"
"But let's leave him alone for to-day." She bent over her father
compassionately. "What a night you must have had, poor dear." Roger looked
up in grim reproach.
"You like all this," he grunted. "You, a grown woman, a teacher too."
"I wonder if I do," she said. "I guess I'm a queer person, dad, a curious
family mixture--of Laura and Edith and mother and you, with a good deal of
myself thrown in. But it feels rather good to be mixed, don't you think?
Let's stay mixed as long as we can--and keep together the family."
* * * * *
That afternoon, to distract him, Deborah took her father to a concert in
Carnegie Hall. She had often urged him to go of late, but despite his
liking for music Roger had refused before, simply because it was a change.
But why balk at going anywhere now, when Laura was up to such antics at
home?
"Do you mind climbing up to the gallery?" Deborah asked as they entered the
hall.
"Not at all," he curtly answered. He did mind it very much!
"Then we'll go to the very top," she said. "It's a long climb but I want
you to see it. It's so different up there."
"I don't doubt it," he replied. And as they made the slow ascent, pettishly
he wondered why Deborah must always be so eager for queer places.
Galleries, zoo schools, tenement slums--why not take a two dollar seat in
life?
Deborah seated him far down in the front of the great gallery, over at the
extreme right, and from here they could look back and up at a huge dim
arena of faces.
"Now watch them close," she whispered. "See what the music does to them."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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