“Oh, nonsense, Mamma!” interrupted Isabel. “Everyone lunches with men, nowadays. It all depends on how you do it. Of course, as for Jimmy’s kissing the rim of his champagne glass in a public restaurant—” She stopped abruptly as Minnie came in with the tea-tray. Minnie loved family gossip, but she was never allowed to hear any. Minnie had been twenty-five years in Mrs. Ward’s service, and in all those years Mrs. Ward had never failed to change the conversation from the personal plane whenever she entered the room.
“I wonder where your father is?” she said now, in a note of hollow inquiry, as Minnie, wheezing slightly, placed the heavy silver tray on the tea-table. Minnie, at fifty-three, was rather plump and puffy. She had recently developed a chronic asthma. But she never allowed anyone else to wait on Mrs. Ward.
“Hello, Minnie!” said Jane.
Minnie smiled her acknowledgement of the greeting.
“How are the children, Mrs. Carver?” she asked. Then bending solicitously over Mrs. Ward. “Don’t you eat too much of that plum cake, Mrs. Ward. It’s too rich for your blood pressure.” Her cap slightly askew on her iron-grey hair, she made a triumphant exit.
“Does Minnie think plum cake sends up blood pressure?” smiled Jane.
“She’s really getting impossible,” said Isabel.
“Sometimes I think she takes more interest in my condition than you children do,” said Mrs. Ward. She poured out a cup of tea for Isabel.
“No sugar, Mamma,” said Isabel. Then, returning to the charge, “Well, Jane, I think you ought to cut it out.”
“Cut what out?” said Jane angrily. “Two lumps, Mamma.”
“Cut out those clubby little parties à deux, with a pint of champagne. When Muriel starts talking—”
“She’s a good one to talk,” said Mrs. Ward.
“Set a thief to catch a thief!” laughed Isabel.
“Oh, Isabel, shut up!” said Jane, in a sudden, snappish return to the vernacular of her childhood. She had not said “shut up” to Isabel for more than twenty years. As the words left her lips, Mr. Ward entered the room. He came in just as he always did, and laid the evening paper on his desk and began to turn over the afternoon mail.
“Hello, kid!” he said tranquilly. “Why must Isabel shut up?”
“Because she’s an ass!” said Jane, still rather snappishly. Mr. Ward raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“So are we all of us,” he said pleasantly, “sometimes.” Then, running his paper-cutter through an envelope, “What’s Isabel been doing now?”
“Talking,” said Jane briefly. “And listening. And repeating silly gossip.”
Mr. Ward looked as if he thought Isabel had merely been running true to form.
“That all?” he said, with a smile.
“I’ve been telling Jane,” said Isabel, “that she’s getting herself talked about.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Ward. “Lizzie, could you make me a cup of weak tea?” He dropped his mail and sat down in his leather chair, lowering himself into it rather carefully, his hands on the arms. “It’s like summer out,” he said pleasantly. “Makes me think of the old days when I used to walk home from the office. The Furnesses’ lilacs are almost in bud.”
“They don’t bud any more, Papa,” said Jane. “The soot is killing them.”
“One does,” said Mr. Ward. “Thank you, Lizzie. The one by the old playhouse.”
“It’s terrible,” sighed Mrs. Ward, “what’s happening to the neighbourhood.”
Jane knew just what her mother thought about what was happening to the neighbourhood. She walked over to the window and stood staring across Pine Street at the new flat building that had gone up in the opposite yard the previous autumn.
“Boardinghouses,” said Mrs. Ward, “and dressmakers and apartments—” Jane was no longer listening. She stood staring out of the window at the terra-cotta façade of the flat building, thinking furious thoughts about Isabel—and Muriel—and a world in which you could not phrase a funny little toast to a man’s concerto, without—Presently she heard her father get up and go out of the room. Jane glanced at her watch.
“I must go,” she said. “I’m motoring out to Lakewood.”
“Are you picking up Stephen?” asked Mrs. Ward.
“No,” said Jane. “He prefers the train.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Goodbye, Isabel,” she added coldly.
“Now, Jane—don’t be a dumbbell,” said Isabel cheerfully. “You think over what I said.”
Jane left the room without stooping to further discord. In the hall she met her father. He was standing there, outside the library door, exactly as if he were waiting for someone. He slipped his arm through hers and walked to the front door. Jane opened it.
“Goodbye, Papa,” she said. There was a note of finality in her tone. He followed her out onto the front steps, however. He stood a moment on the top one, gently detaining her by his restraining arm.
“Kid,” said Mr. Ward, “I know you’re a grown woman, but you seem just like a child to me.”
Jane smiled, a little nervously. She did not speak.
“But you’re a wise child, kid,” went on Mr. Ward, “and I wouldn’t presume to dictate on your conduct.” He too smiled just a little nervously. Jane still stood silent. “I’ll only trespass on the parental prerogatives so far as to urge you,” said Mr. Ward, “to avoid all appearance of evil. It’s a wicked world.
“Papa,” said Jane, “I haven’t been doing anything I shouldn’t.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” said Mr. Ward quickly, “It’s just Muriel’s nonsense. You know Muriel.”
“Yes, I know Muriel,” said Mr. Ward. “That’s why I urge you to avoid all appearance of evil.” He stood looking steadily at Jane. The nervousness had left his smile. His eyes looked worried, however. His eyes looked tired, Jane thought. His eyes looked old. They seemed a darker brown since his hair had turned so white. Jane kissed him, tenderly.
“I will, Papa,” she said. “Don’t worry.” Then she ran down the steps and jumped into the Overland. She glanced back to wave at her father. He was still standing on the
