“Good stuff, Lucy,” declared Jim, taking a second croquette himself. “Wouldn’t blame your mother if she were.”
“But really, Mr. Sprague, as a rule—”
She was interrupted by John.
“Jim, why on earth can’t you call Nannie by her name! One would think she was a perfect stranger.”
“She is, nearly,” said Lucy, smiling again.
“Well, we’re all starting over now,” returned John in a tone of mild reprimand, “and she won’t be in the future, so let’s not be so formal.”
An uncomfortable pause followed.
“You’ve dropped your flower, John.” As Nannie spoke at last, she picked up the boutonniere from the table and replaced it in the lapel of his coat. “What was that you were saying about art?”
“Oh! Well you know, Nannie, I was just going to say that I don’t have any more use for these new movements in art than for the moralizing and story telling things of the last century. These cubist and futuristic cranks forget the same thing the others do. That is that the artist’s purpose is to create beauty. Why can’t they give us the beauty they see and let us judge of it, instead of trying to tell us something about it we aren’t interested in. Now take Inness, for instance—”
“I just love him! Aren’t his things fine!” Nannie chimed in.
John rumpled his hair.
“Yes, an Inness,” he repeated. “Doesn’t it give you enough? Can’t you look at it and hear the wind in the trees? It isn’t only atmosphere, it’s the beauty of nature in its simplicity, and that’s what we want in art—simplicity.” He looked around the table.
“You’ve thought a lot about such things,” exclaimed Mrs. Merwent admiringly.
“It isn’t so much an intellectual conception as a feeling for the true thing that counts in art, Nannie,” replied John.
“That’s what I mean,” she explained.
“Your dinner’ll get cold, dear,” interrupted Lucy.
John began to eat again and silence reigned for some moments.
Lucy turned to Jim.
“The croquettes aren’t all gone yet. Have another?” she invited.
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll take one, Lucy, if you don’t mind,” interposed Nannie. Lucy passed the dish hastily.
“Why of course, Mamma.”
Silence descended again on the group.
“We seem to be a quiet family,” Mrs. Merwent observed after a few moments.
John looked up from his plate.
“What’s the matter with you, Jim? And you too, Lucy?” he inquired, glancing from one of them to the other. “It seems as though a funeral had struck the place. Neither of you have a word to say tonight.”
“Seems to me I’m talking as much as usual,” said Jim defensively, laughing a little. “The trouble is that you’ve quit talking. We always listen to you.”
“Rot!” retorted John. “You haven’t said half a dozen words.”
“I thought you all discussed the most abstruse things,” put in Nannie.
“We do,” avowed John. “I can’t understand what’s come over them.”
“Do talk about something profound, Mr. Sprague. I love to listen even if I can’t join in the discussion,” she urged.
“You’re really mistaken, Mrs. Merwent. I talk very little,” Jim protested. “John’s joking.”
“I suppose it depends on the company you’re in,” she parried.
“I talked a lot to you before dinner.” Jim turned his eyes on her.
Nannie avoided his gaze.
“My friend Professor Walsh, who is head of the school at home, has a better opinion of me than some other people,” she declared after a pause, ignoring Jim’s remark and speaking to the table at large.
“What nonsense, Mamma!” Lucy interrupted gently. “Whoever made any comparison!”
“Comparisons can be made by inference,” Mrs. Merwent insisted with dignity. “Professor Walsh knows all kinds of erudite things and he never considers it any condescension to talk to poor little me!” she finished.
“Neither do we! What’s got into you, Nannie?” John exclaimed, slightly irritated, but laughing.
“I know you don’t, John.” Nannie smiled at him.
Lucy rose.
“Help me bring in the dessert, Jim,” she invited.
“Lucy does need a servant,” Nannie declared when she and John were alone together.
After dinner the men remained in their places to smoke as was their custom, and a little later they all drew their chairs back and the conversation became more animated as John related at length some of his experiences at the art school. Then Lucy began to clear the table.
Jim glanced once or twice at Mrs. Merwent who was listening to John and asking questions about various girls mentioned by him in the course of his narrative.
“Let me help you with the dishes, Lucy,” Jim lowered his voice slightly.
“Why of course, Jim. I thought you had forgotten your job,” Lucy agreed, at the same time regarding her mother, who seemed much amused by something John had just said and entirely oblivious to her daughter.
Jim removed his coat and he and Lucy carried the dishes to the kitchen, Dimmie assisting with invaluable efforts and advice.
While the dish washing was in progress Mrs. Merwent appeared in the kitchen doorway, and surveyed the scene of activity: Jim, coatless and aproned, Lucy with her sleeves rolled up, and Dimmie in general administrative charge.
“Why, Lucy, I didn’t know you were washing the dishes! Do let me help!” Nannie begged rather weakly.
Lucy replied pleasantly.
“No, thank you, Mamma. We’ll be through in a minute.”
Nannie went back to the dining room.
“They don’t seem to need us out there,” she informed John. “Do tell me some more about that Miss Stimpson at the Art School—the one with the red hair. I think she’s so interesting.”
Soon Lucy and Jim returned to the dining room. Dimmie was hanging to his mother’s skirt and rubbing his eyes. She looked down at the child.
“I think I know a little boy who wants to go to sleepy town.” She smiled at him and took his hand. “Kiss Papa and Uncle Jim,” she continued, leading him up to John.
“And Nannie! Would you forget poor Nannie?” complained Mrs. Merwent, presenting her cheek which Dimmie dutifully kissed.
“Good night, Dimmie,” Jim called after the child.
“You’re quite domestic, Mr. Sprague,” Nannie commented after Lucy and Dimmie had
