“I’d ask nothing better than to have her with me,” said Mother Stewart. “I guess her grandmother appreciates her, even if her parents don’t.”
“Tod isn’t both of her parents,” said Clara. “I appreciate her.”
“But you forget she’s just a child. It breaks her spirit, being so strict with her.”
“Strict! I don’t have a chance to be strict.”
“After all, Clara’s her mother,” said the elder Stewart, slipping his grandchild a chocolate cream under the table.
He felt it was time to change the subject, even if the change were for the worse.
“How’s things at the office, Tod?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said his son.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Well, Dad, I haven’t been there since last Saturday. They let me out.”
“What was the matter?”
“They didn’t like me, I guess.”
“You were only there two weeks.”
“That’s plenty of time for people to tell whether they like you or not.”
“Don’t talk so foolishly, Tod!” said Mother Stewart. “Myrtle isn’t old enough to understand your nonsense, and children repeat things outside.”
“It’s only the truth.”
“It’s not the truth and you know it! Old Kendall hasn’t brains enough to appreciate you. Or maybe that boy of his is jealous. And you weren’t well, anyway. How could you do yourself justice when you felt so miserable? Besides, it was no place for you, a hot, stuffy, dirty office like that! I don’t believe anyone even dusts. I wouldn’t worry about losing that kind of a position.”
“I don’t worry, Mother. I don’t worry enough. But Clara worries and I don’t blame her.”
“I didn’t say I was worried.”
“There’s no reason why you should be,” said her mother-in-law. “A woman who has a husband like Tod ought to be just proud and nothing else. Though she ought to worry a little about his health and see that he gets proper food and rest.”
“That reminds me, I forgot to take my medicine,” said Tod, and went to his bedroom, to the chiffonier where he kept his medicine in a large bottle which someone had labeled Gordon in a spirit of levity.
Mother Stewart took advantage of his absence to inquire whether he had any prospect of another job, wording her inquiry vaguely so Myrtle would think they were discussing bulbs. It was a waste of subtlety, for Myrtle was too busy stuffing herself to care what the talk was about.
Clara said the only thing in sight was a position with a Chicago firm, getting subscriptions in this territory for a new twenty-volume encyclopedia.
“He would work on a commission, no salary.”
“Well, I should think he’d make lots more money that way. Tod has so much charm, people are all so fond of him that I guess they’d buy nearly anything he asked them to.”
She had forgotten (but Clara remembered) that Tod had tried out many times before as a salesman and had proved conclusively that he couldn’t sell ant eggs to a wealthy turtle.
“Of course you mustn’t allow him to take it if it means much walking around, or lugging twenty big books everywhere he goes. He can describe the books and not carry them. Or he could have a set of them here at the house and invite people to come and see them. Maybe you could help by serving sandwiches and ginger ale.”
“They aren’t even published yet. There’s just a prospectus.”
“Well, it would save him walking and tiring himself out if you kept that here and invited people in. Harry’s feet got terribly calloused once, taking the census.”
“Couldn’t he have made people come to the house and give their names?” said Clara. “I should think they’d have been more willing when they didn’t have to buy anything.”
But it was necessary to change the subject again, for Tod was back at the table.
“Myrtle,” said Clara, “will you get your grandfather some more water while Mother clears the table?”
“Oh, the poor child! Don’t make a servant of her! Maybe that’s why she has trouble with her digestion, having to jump up and wait on people in the middle of a meal. Ben doesn’t want any more water, and Tod hasn’t finished his turkey.”
“I can’t eat any more, Mother. I’m full.”
“Why, you haven’t eaten anything at all.”
“I’ve eaten all I wanted.”
“Maybe—Still, Clara’s getting to be a pretty good cook. You are a much better cook than you were, Clara.”
“Thanks. Oh, Mother Stewart, don’t get up! What do you want?”
“I thought if Ben has to have more water—”
“I’ll get him some. You sit still.”
“Well, all right,” said Mother Stewart, resuming her seat; “but rather than see Myrtle—”
“We used to have wine Thanksgivings at Harry’s,” recalled Father Stewart. “Claret wine. I don’t get it anymore.”
“I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving when Grace was so pie-eyed.”
“That’s enough, Tod!” his mother warned. “Little pitchers, you know.”
“I’ll bet Myrtle remembers it herself. Do you, Myrt?”
“Remember what?” said Myrtle.
“Little girls mustn’t try to understand their father’s silly jokes. They must just eat and get big and strong.”
Clara hoped Myrtle would not eat all her pie, but she did, though the last few mouthfuls were taken without enthusiasm.
“I’ll help you with the dishes,” said Mother Stewart.
“No, indeed! It’s nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t think of letting you. If you’ll amuse Myrtle—”
The same two speeches had followed every meal her parents-in-law had eaten at Clara’s in seven or eight years.
When Clara was through in the kitchen, she went into the living room and found Father Stewart dozing in his favorite chair. Tod was absent after more medicine. Myrtle was lying on the couch and her grandmother sat beside her, stroking her forehead.
“I don’t think she feels very good. She complains of stomach ache. It will take her a long time to get over that fright.”
Myrtle slept and Clara wished she could sleep, too, but she had to listen to Mother Stewart.
“I had a letter from Grace Saturday. She apologized for not writing oftener; she said she had so
