Mr. Massoula.
“I’ll say,” agreed Joe.
“We’ll have all the windows open on that day,” assured Mrs. Banks.
“What we mean by circulation,” said Mr. Massoula kindly, “is the guest flow from room to room. A room with two interior doors has minimum circulation. A room like this with only one is—is—well, it’s a death trap. Where does this go?”
Mr. Massoula pulled the knob of a door. It came off in his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Banks miserably. “It does that unless you push it in first. That just goes into a closet anyway.”
Mr. Massoula placed the knob on the dining-room table. “Is this the pantry?” The two men seemed to fill the little room.
“Small,” said Mr. Massoula.
“Dark,” said Joe.
Mrs. Banks snapped the electric switch. Nothing happened.
“Bulb’s busted,” said Joe. “I seen enough.”
Mrs. Banks followed them gloomily back to the living room.
“Circulation in this room’s O.K.,” said Mr. Massoula.
“Only one that is,” said Joe.
“But you couldn’t get more than a hundred and twenty-five in the house.”
“Squash ’em like bugs if you did,” said Joe.
The knob of the door came off in his hands.
“I’m planning to take a lot of these things up to the attic, you know,” explained Mrs. Banks. “All those straight chairs go up, and the small tables and standing lamps, and we’re thinking of taking up the rug.”
“Takin’ th’ rug up ain’t goin’ to give any more room,” said Joe. Mr. Massoula maintained a displeased silence.
“Have you any suggestions?” asked Mrs. Banks nervously.
“Yes, madam, I have,” said Mr. Massoula. “Even with a marquee you’re going to be cramped. By the way, Joe, go out in the back and measure for the marquee. Now you see, madam, circulation’s your big problem. The first thing you’ve got to do is clear this room of all furniture.”
There was a suggestion of tears in Mrs. Banks’ voice. “You don’t mean the big davenport and the armchairs and—”
“Of course. And the piano. Everything must come out of this room. Now in the dining room—”
“Does the dining-room table have to go too?” she wailed, but Mr. Massoula was not listening.
“That chandelier over the dining-room table—could that be looped up or something?”
In view of the fact that the chandelier was not made of rubber tubing Mrs. Banks did not see how it could.
“Then you better have the electrician take it out an’ cap it temporarily,” said Mr. Massoula. “It’s in the way. Now about these doors between the rooms. They’ve got to be taken off. You’d be surprised to see how much circulation you lose on account of doors. Especially doors like these.”
Mrs. Banks might have forgiven him if he had not added that last sentence. As it was she lost her temper as an alternative to tears. “What in the world do you think I’ve got upstairs—a cold-storage warehouse? And who do you think is going to lug all this stuff up there—if there was room? And who do you think is going to get it down again?”
But Mr. Massoula was a creative artist. Details were not in his line. “We’ll connect the marquee to this French door from the living room,” he said. He tried to open the door but it merely slammed violently back and forth at the top. The bottom was apparently glued to the sill.
“It’s stuck,” explained Mrs. Banks. “I’ve been meaning to have that door fixed.”
Mr. Massoula opened a window and leaned out. “Hi, Joe,” he bawled. “Figure on a connecting angle through the French door here. Measure from the outside. The thing’s stuck.”
“I’ll say,” came an angry voice from the lilacs. “Too many God-damn bushes out here. Ought to get rid of ’em.”
12
TOMORROW’S MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING DAY
The day before the wedding came at last. When one concentrates fiercely and at length on an event in the distant future it eventually becomes fixed in the mind as something
“I’ll say,” agreed Joe.
“We’ll have all the windows open on that day,” assured Mrs. Banks.
“What we mean by circulation,” said Mr. Massoula kindly, “is the guest flow from room to room. A room with two interior doors has minimum circulation. A room like this with only one is—is—well, it’s a death trap. Where does this go?”
Mr. Massoula pulled the knob of a door. It came off in his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Banks miserably. “It does that unless you push it in first. That just goes into a closet anyway.”
Mr. Massoula placed the knob on the dining-room table. “Is this the pantry?” The two men seemed to fill the little room.
“Small,” said Mr. Massoula.
“Dark,” said Joe.
Mrs. Banks snapped the electric switch. Nothing happened.
“Bulb’s busted,” said Joe. “I seen enough.”
Mrs. Banks followed them gloomily back to the living room.
“Circulation in this room’s O.K.,” said Mr. Massoula.
“Only one that is,” said Joe.
“But you couldn’t get more than a hundred and twenty-five in the house.”
“Squash ’em like bugs if you did,” said Joe.
The knob of the door came off in his hands.
“I’m planning to take a lot of these things up to the attic, you know,” explained Mrs. Banks. “All those straight chairs go up, and the small tables and standing lamps, and we’re thinking of taking up the rug.”
“Takin’ th’ rug up ain’t goin’ to give any more room,” said Joe. Mr. Massoula maintained a displeased silence.
“Have you any suggestions?” asked Mrs. Banks nervously.
“Yes, madam, I have,” said Mr. Massoula. “Even with a marquee you’re going to be cramped. By the way, Joe, go out in the back and measure for the marquee. Now you see, madam, circulation’s your big problem. The first thing you’ve got to do is clear this room of all furniture.”
There was a suggestion of tears in Mrs. Banks’ voice. “You don’t mean the big davenport and the armchairs and—”
“Of course. And the piano. Everything must come out of this room. Now in the dining room—”
“Does the dining-room table have to go too?” she wailed, but Mr. Massoula was not listening.
“That chandelier over the dining-room table—could that be looped up or something?”
In view of the fact that the chandelier was not made of rubber tubing Mrs. Banks did not see how it could.
“Then you better have the electrician take it out an’ cap it temporarily,” said Mr. Massoula. “It’s in the way. Now about these doors between the rooms. They’ve got to be taken off. You’d be surprised to see how much circulation you lose on account of doors. Especially doors like these.”
Mrs. Banks might have forgiven him if he had not added that last sentence. As it was she lost her temper as an alternative to tears. “What in the world do you think I’ve got upstairs—a cold-storage warehouse? And who do you think is going to lug all this stuff up there—if there was room? And who do you think is going to get it down again?”
But Mr. Massoula was a creative artist. Details were not in his line. “We’ll connect the marquee to this French door from the living room,” he said. He tried to open the door but it merely slammed violently back and forth at the top. The bottom was apparently glued to the sill.
“It’s stuck,” explained Mrs. Banks. “I’ve been meaning to have that door fixed.”
Mr. Massoula opened a window and leaned out. “Hi, Joe,” he bawled. “Figure on a connecting angle through the French door here. Measure from the outside. The thing’s stuck.”
“I’ll say,” came an angry voice from the lilacs. “Too many God-damn bushes out here. Ought to get rid of ’em.”
12
TOMORROW’S MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING DAY
The day before the wedding came at last. When one concentrates fiercely and at length on an event in the distant future it eventually becomes fixed in the mind as something
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