Married people -- United States -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
“Of all things!” said Mrs. Thatcher in a tone of deep disappointment.
“What on _earth_ does he want to keep on getting these subscription
things for? And he _knows_ we need the money for the rug. He’ll never
read these—he’ll never even look at them. I cannot understand it! He
never _sees_ a book without wanting to buy it—he says he just likes to
_have_ books. Well, _he’ll_ have to find a place to put these, for I
can’t.”
“Shall I take the books out of the box, ma’am?” asked Kitty, coming into
the hall.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Thatcher wearily. “Yes, I suppose
you’ll have to; we can’t leave the box here.” She looked over at the tiny
drawing-room, with its little spindle-legged mahogany tea-table, the low
well-filled bookcase, the rattan sofa with its bright pillows, and the
small upright piano, and then at the solid pile of information at her
feet. There were thirty volumes—for she had counted them—thirty volumes
pressed down and running over with the Literature of All Nations.
“I suppose you’ll have to pile them up in the corner over there. I’m sure
_I_ don’t know what to do with them.”
“And shall I put the lunch on now, ma’am?”
“Is it time? Oh, yes; Bobby is coming in. Yes, put it on.”
Croquettes and pop-overs and the violet centerpiece for this arrival
by express, indeed! She felt unaccountably defrauded—a sensation that
lingered with her throughout the whole afternoon, and tinged her with
melancholy, even when she responded to the playful overtures or the needs
of Bobby, who kept continually running in from the back yard to have his
ball mended, or a string tied to something. He struggled away from her
when she wanted to kiss him, and he smelled indescribably of earth. He
was of the sex which grew up to have strange ways and alien tastes—he
even had them now. Mrs. Thatcher had not wanted a boy, although she loved
this one devotedly. She longed inexpressibly sometimes for a dear little
gentle, clinging girl, who could be frivolously dressed in soft, white,
ruffly things, and have her sweet hair curled.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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