Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

up in the attic⁠—a room’s got to have chairs! Might have rented some. No; if he ever comes again he’d see they weren’t here. ‘If he ever comes again’⁠—oh, it won’t be that bad! But it won’t be what he expects. I’m responsible for what he expects: he expects just what the airs I’ve put on have made him expect. What did I want to pose so to him for⁠—as if papa were a wealthy man and all that? What will he think? The photograph of the Colosseum’s a rather good thing, though. It helps some⁠—as if we’d bought it in Rome perhaps. I hope he’ll think so; he believes I’ve been abroad, of course. The other night he said, ‘You remember the feeling you get in the Sainte-Chapelle’⁠—There’s another lie of mine, not saying I didn’t remember because I’d never been there. What makes me do it? Papa must wear his evening clothes. But Walter⁠—”

With that she recalled her mother’s admonition, and went upstairs to Walter’s door. She tapped upon it with her fingers.

“Time to get up, Walter. The rest of us had breakfast over half an hour ago, and it’s nearly eight o’clock. You’ll be late. Hurry down and I’ll have some coffee and toast ready for you.” There came no sound from within the room, so she rapped louder.

“Wake up, Walter!”

She called and rapped again, without getting any response, and then, finding that the door yielded to her, opened it and went in. Walter was not there.

He had been there, however; had slept upon the bed, though not inside the covers; and Alice supposed he must have come home so late that he had been too sleepy to take off his clothes. Near the foot of the bed was a shallow closet where he kept his “other suit” and his evening clothes; and the door stood open, showing a bare wall. Nothing whatever was in the closet, and Alice was rather surprised at this for a moment. “That’s queer,” she murmured; and then she decided that when he woke he found the clothes he had slept in “so mussy” he had put on his “other suit,” and had gone out before breakfast with the mussed clothes to have them pressed, taking his evening things with them. Satisfied with this explanation, and failing to observe that it did not account for the absence of shoes from the closet floor, she nodded absently, “Yes, that must be it”; and, when her mother returned, told her that Walter had probably breakfasted downtown. They did not delay over this; the coloured woman had arrived, and the basket’s disclosures were important.

“I stopped at Worlig’s on the way back,” said Mrs. Adams, flushed with hurry and excitement. “I bought a can of caviar there. I thought we’d have little sandwiches brought into the living-room before dinner, the way you said they did when you went to that dinner at the⁠—”

“But I think that was to go with cocktails, mama, and of course we haven’t⁠—”

“No,” Mrs. Adams said. “Still, I think it would be nice. We can make them look very dainty, on a tray, and the waitress can bring them in. I thought we’d have the soup already on the table; and we can walk right out as soon as we have the sandwiches, so it won’t get cold. Then, after the soup, Malena says she can make sweetbread patés with mushrooms: and for the meat course we’ll have larded fillet. Malena’s really a fancy cook, you know, and she says she can do anything like that to perfection. We’ll have peas with the fillet, and potato balls and Brussels sprouts. Brussels sprouts are fashionable now, they told me at market. Then will come the chicken salad, and after that the ice-cream⁠—she’s going to make an angel-food cake to go with it⁠—and then coffee and crackers and a new kind of cheese I got at Worlig’s, he says is very fine.”

Alice was alarmed. “Don’t you think perhaps it’s too much, mama?”

“It’s better to have too much than too little,” her mother said, cheerfully. “We don’t want him to think we’re the kind that skimp. Lord knows we have to enough, though, most of the time! Get the flowers in water, child. I bought ’em at market because they’re so much cheaper there, but they’ll keep fresh and nice. You fix ’em any way you want. Hurry! It’s got to be a busy day.”

She had bought three dozen little roses. Alice took them and began to arrange them in vases, keeping the stems separated as far as possible so that the clumps would look larger. She put half a dozen in each of three vases in the living-room, placing one vase on the table in the center of the room, and one at each end of the mantelpiece. Then she took the rest of the roses to the dining-room; but she postponed the arrangement of them until the table should be set, just before dinner. She was thoughtful; planning to dry the stems and lay them on the tablecloth like a vine of roses running in a delicate design, if she found that the dozen and a half she had left were enough for that. If they weren’t she would arrange them in a vase.

She looked a long time at the little roses in the basin of water, where she had put them; then she sighed, and went away to heavier tasks, while her mother worked in the kitchen with Malena. Alice dusted the living-room and the dining-room vigorously, though all the time with a look that grew more and more pensive; and having dusted everything, she wiped the furniture; rubbed it hard. After that, she washed the floors and the woodwork.

Emerging from the kitchen at noon, Mrs. Adams found her daughter on hands and knees, scrubbing the bases of the columns between the hall and the living-room.

“Now, dearie,” she said, “you mustn’t tire yourself out, and you’d better come and eat something. Your father said he’d