for supper.
And…
Myrtle jumped up and ran into the kitchen. She jerked a lid off the stove and saw that the fire was almost out. Snatching up the coal hod, she tore out the back door to the shed adjoining the privy. She filled the hod, frowning at the scanty stock that remained. They were always out of something, it seemed. But usually it was coal. And she tried to be so careful, too. They didn’t have a heater, only the kitchen range, and she was always letting the fire go out in that, so hard did she try to economize. Some days she did let it go out, going to bed with her clothes on to keep warm.
Back inside the house she turned the damper on the stove and shoved a few stingy pieces of coal onto the scuttle. She raised it regretfully, hating to release the penny or two it represented.
Perhaps it would be a good idea to go to bed today. Alfred wouldn’t be home until late. She could get up around five and have the house warm and dinner ready in plenty of time.
She put the lid back on the stove and let the coal slide back into the hod. She poured water into the basin on the washstand, washed the traces of coal dust from her hands, and went into the bedroom. She put on her coat, a long black tailored affair which extended to her ankles, and turned down the bed.
Then, with a little moan, she turned away from it. Not today. She couldn’t stand it today.
Almost grimly she took her ostrich-plumed hat from the closet, jammed it on her head, and fixed it there by a large hatpin with a rhinestone-studded head. She hurried out the front door and down the walk before she could change her mind.
Bella and she had a lot in common. Their menfolk were both bankers, and she wasn’t a whole lot older than Bella. They could talk about the same things and laugh at the people of this poor funny little town. Bella liked her—more than she liked any of the other women, anyway—and she would not return the visit. Bella never went visiting. She said she thought it was silly—a lot of stupid old hens chasing back and forth to each others’ houses. She didn’t mean her, Myrtle, naturally, because she wasn’t old and they were cousins and Barkley didn’t come out to lunch, so it would be all right.
It had better be all right! If it wasn’t, she’d tell Grant, and Grant would listen to her when he wouldn’t to anyone else, and how would Miss Bella Barkley like that?
Turning in at the gate of the brown two-story Barkley home, Myrtle saw that the shades were all drawn, and her nose elevated itself an inch or two. Bella was always making fun of the way people gawked when they passed her home. (As if she had so much anyone wanted to see!) She had even called out to old Mrs. Purnell one day and asked her if she wouldn’t like to stand up to the window.
Myrtle sniffed, silently deciding to keep her own shades drawn.
Her feet made no noise on the snow as she crossed the porch, and her knock broke the silence without warning.
There was no answer to her summons, but she heard a telltale scurrying from the inside. Determinedly, she knocked again. Probably still lying around undressed and here it was almost noon! She’d like to catch her that way, just once, just to see what excuse she would give.
She knocked.
She called, simperingly. “Bella? It’s just me—I.”
Embarrassed, she beat a steady tattoo on the door. Bella was inside and she knew she was there. She couldn’t very well go away now without seeing her and telling her that she had just stopped by on her way some place, just to say hello, and she could really only stay a few minutes.
“Bella! It’s Myrtle!” she called.
And then she blushed. For she heard Bella crossing the floor and fumbling at the latch; and preceding these actions there had been a muttered but quite audible curse.
The door opened a few inches and Mrs. Courtland’s blush deepened. Bella was wearing wine-colored house slippers with giant white pompoms and a thin red silk robe—and nothing
And…
Myrtle jumped up and ran into the kitchen. She jerked a lid off the stove and saw that the fire was almost out. Snatching up the coal hod, she tore out the back door to the shed adjoining the privy. She filled the hod, frowning at the scanty stock that remained. They were always out of something, it seemed. But usually it was coal. And she tried to be so careful, too. They didn’t have a heater, only the kitchen range, and she was always letting the fire go out in that, so hard did she try to economize. Some days she did let it go out, going to bed with her clothes on to keep warm.
Back inside the house she turned the damper on the stove and shoved a few stingy pieces of coal onto the scuttle. She raised it regretfully, hating to release the penny or two it represented.
Perhaps it would be a good idea to go to bed today. Alfred wouldn’t be home until late. She could get up around five and have the house warm and dinner ready in plenty of time.
She put the lid back on the stove and let the coal slide back into the hod. She poured water into the basin on the washstand, washed the traces of coal dust from her hands, and went into the bedroom. She put on her coat, a long black tailored affair which extended to her ankles, and turned down the bed.
Then, with a little moan, she turned away from it. Not today. She couldn’t stand it today.
Almost grimly she took her ostrich-plumed hat from the closet, jammed it on her head, and fixed it there by a large hatpin with a rhinestone-studded head. She hurried out the front door and down the walk before she could change her mind.
Bella and she had a lot in common. Their menfolk were both bankers, and she wasn’t a whole lot older than Bella. They could talk about the same things and laugh at the people of this poor funny little town. Bella liked her—more than she liked any of the other women, anyway—and she would not return the visit. Bella never went visiting. She said she thought it was silly—a lot of stupid old hens chasing back and forth to each others’ houses. She didn’t mean her, Myrtle, naturally, because she wasn’t old and they were cousins and Barkley didn’t come out to lunch, so it would be all right.
It had better be all right! If it wasn’t, she’d tell Grant, and Grant would listen to her when he wouldn’t to anyone else, and how would Miss Bella Barkley like that?
Turning in at the gate of the brown two-story Barkley home, Myrtle saw that the shades were all drawn, and her nose elevated itself an inch or two. Bella was always making fun of the way people gawked when they passed her home. (As if she had so much anyone wanted to see!) She had even called out to old Mrs. Purnell one day and asked her if she wouldn’t like to stand up to the window.
Myrtle sniffed, silently deciding to keep her own shades drawn.
Her feet made no noise on the snow as she crossed the porch, and her knock broke the silence without warning.
There was no answer to her summons, but she heard a telltale scurrying from the inside. Determinedly, she knocked again. Probably still lying around undressed and here it was almost noon! She’d like to catch her that way, just once, just to see what excuse she would give.
She knocked.
She called, simperingly. “Bella? It’s just me—I.”
Embarrassed, she beat a steady tattoo on the door. Bella was inside and she knew she was there. She couldn’t very well go away now without seeing her and telling her that she had just stopped by on her way some place, just to say hello, and she could really only stay a few minutes.
“Bella! It’s Myrtle!” she called.
And then she blushed. For she heard Bella crossing the floor and fumbling at the latch; and preceding these actions there had been a muttered but quite audible curse.
The door opened a few inches and Mrs. Courtland’s blush deepened. Bella was wearing wine-colored house slippers with giant white pompoms and a thin red silk robe—and nothing
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