Married people -- Fiction; New York (State) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
The sun went down; Long Island Sound was shot with red gold as little
waves reached up hands at the wonder of light. Father and Mother gazed
and ate chocolate ice-cream and large quantities of cake, with the naive
relish of people who usually dine at home.
They sat on deck till Mother yawned and nodded and at last said the
"Wel-l--" which always means, "Let's go to bed." Father had so inspired
her with faith in the comparative safety of their wild voyaging that
she was no longer afraid, but just sleepy. She nestled in her chair and
smiled shamefacedly and said, "It's only half-past nine, but somehow--".
In her drowsiness the wrinkles smoothed away from round her eyes and
left her face like that of a plump, tired, happy little girl.
When they were at home Father's and Mother's garments had a way of
getting so familiarly mixed that even Mother could scarcely keep their
bureau drawers separate. But when they traveled they were aristocrats,
and they had entirely separate suit-cases and berths. From the pompous
manner in which Father unpacked his bag you would have been utterly
beguiled, and have supposed him to be one of those high persons who have
whole suites to themselves and see their consorts only at state
banquets, when there are celery and olives, and the squire invited to
dinner. There was nothing these partners in life more enjoyed than the
one night's pretense that they were aloof. But they suddenly forgot
their roles; they squealed with pleasure and patted each other's
shoulders fondly. For simultaneously they had discovered the surprises.
In Mother's suit-case, inside her second-best boots, Father had hidden
four slender beribboned boxes of the very best chocolate peppermints;
while in Father's seemly nightgown was a magnificent new mouth-organ.
Father was an artist on the mouth-organ. He could set your heart
prancing with the strains of "Dandy Dick and the Candlestick." But his
old mouth-organ had grown wheezy. Now he sat down and played softly till
their tiny inside state-room was filled with a tumbling chorus of happy
notes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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