'No matter what,' he promised. He was a criminal. He
might leave her, although not 'really.' There was bitter. There was sweet.
In a few minutes, he turned her gently, and they began to go up the steps to the kitchen door.
Chapter XXI
ETHEL GffiSON returned to the cottage shortly after four o'clock that afternoon. She frowned to find the doors unlocked, the place wide open, and empty. Very careless of her brother! Still, he might be over at the Townsends', just across the driveways. Ethel did not feel in a mood to join him, if so. She had arranged her day in her mind and did not like to break her plan with idle and unexpected sociability.
She put off her summer suit-jacket and marched into the kitchen. What disarray! Really, order was essential in so small a house. Ethel did not like living in this cottage; an apartment would be so much less labor. She thought they would be moving elsewhere before very long. Now she compressed her lips. Lettuce limpening on the open counter. Bread not neatly in the bread box. Cocoa, tea, should be on the shelves. Cheese ought to be refrigerated. A green paper bag. Now what was this? A tiny bottle of olive oil. Imported! Much too expensive!
She shook her head and proceeded to clear the things away, properly washed the lettuce and put it in the crisping bin, the cheese in the icebox, threw the paper bag into the kitchen wastebasket, placed cans and bottles in the cupboard.
She stepped into the living room long enough to switch on the radio. Music was a habit with her. She paid no attention to it but felt its absence.
She then walked back to her (and Rosemary's) bedroom, drew off her business clothes and hung them, put on a cotton dress. Ethel then threw herself down upon the bed to relax. Music came distantly. When there were voices, she did not listen. She never listened to commercials. Her mind ran over the first day at this office. This job would serve. She already felt that she had some clues to the hid-
den springs of the boss's character. She foresaw an orderly, courageous, and useful life in this quiet town. Excellent for her health. She dozed.
She was wakened at a quarter after five by the telephone. The house was still empty.
'Yes?'
'This is the Townsend Laboratories calling,' said a female voice. 'Is Mr. Kenneth Gibson there?'
'No, he is not.' Ethel was crisp.
'Where is he, do you know?'
'No, I do not. I daresay he will be here at dinner time.'
'When?' The voice faded feebly.
'At a quarter of six.'
'Oh. Well, will you be sure to have him call this number?'
Ethel took down the number.
'It's important,' said the voice, fading again as if in some mysterious agitation.
'I'll tell him,' said Ethel, soothingly.
Ethel hung up. She was slightly annoyed.
Inconsiderate! Consideration was the first rule in such a menage as this. Rosemary should have returned, must soon. Where could Ken be? She couldn't imagine. Yes, she could. Probably he was lost in a book at the branch library.
Dinner at a quarter of six.
She would start dinner.
They knew the dinner hour.
The radio still played. She felt a bit martyred in this mysterious loneliness and she turned it off, feeding a grievance.
She went into the kitchen and began to prepare their dinner. It would be very simple. Ethel approved of a spaghetti dinner, inexpensive and nourishing and easy to put together—these packaged brands. She dumped the boughten sauce out into a pan. Thought better of this. One ought to doctor up a boughten sauce, she knew. Ethel chopped an onion fine and put it into the sauce. She was not a sensitive cook. She had eaten what restaurants put before her, for so many years. Food was food. It was either cheap or it was expensive. Still, she realized that she ought to have sauteed the onions. Perhaps in the olive oil? What did Ken mean it for, anyway? The bottle didn't hold enough for a salad dressing, Ethel did not like it in a dressing, having made do with cheap vegetable oils for so
long. Surely not for fruit! No, he must have fancied the taste of olive oil in the spaghetti sauce. Perhaps it was some fancy of Rosemary's.
She grimaced but took the bottle down and turned the cap. Oh, well . . . she dumped it into the saucepan. She hoped it would not taste too much. She washed out the bottle and set it upside down to drain. King Roberto stood on his head. Ethel filled a large pot with water for the pasta.
She began to cut up fruit for salad. She doubted the lettuce would be crisp at all. Five thirty-four and nobody home yet.
Ethel began to set the table in the dining alcove of the living room. From here she could see the driveways and she heard and saw Paul's car come in and a great load of people begin to get hastily out of it. Ethel averted her eyes. It was beneath her to spy on the neighbors. A party, she presumed. The word 'party' meant something lightweight to her, timewasting, profitless chitchat. (Nobody ever asked Ethel to parties.)
Now the table was set. The water at a boil. The sauce ready enough. She turned it low. She mixed the salad.
