Sometimes Bert got
a theatre pass, sometimes old friends or kinspeople came to town,
and Bert and Nancy went to one of the big hotels to dinner, and
stared radiantly about at the bright lights, and listened to music
again, and were whirled home in a taxicab.
"That party cost your Cousin Edith about twenty-five dollars,"
Nancy, rolling up her hair-net thoughtfully, would say late at
night, with a suppressed yawn. "The dinner check was fourteen, and
the tickets eight--it cost her more than twenty-five dollars!
Doesn't that seem wicked, Bert? And all that delicious chicken
that we hardly touched--dear me, what fun I could have with
twenty-five dollars! There are so many things I'd like to buy that
I never do; just silly things, you know--nice soaps and powders,
and fancy cheeses and an alligator pear, and the kind of toilet
water you love so--don't you remember you bought it in Boston when
we honeymooned?"
Perhaps a shadow would touch Bert's watching face, and he would
come to put an arm about her and her loosened cloud of hair.
"Poor old girl, it isn't much fun for you! Do you get tired of it,
Nancy?"
"Bert," she said, one night in a mood of gravity and confidence
that he loved, and had learned to watch for, "I never get tired.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39