“Aren’t you having any?” he asked.
The table was not laid. Beatrice’s work-basket, a little wicker fruit-skep, overflowed scissors, and pins, and scraps of holland, and reels of cotton on the green serge cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows on the table.
Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took out a tablecloth, pushed her sewing litter aside, and spread the cloth over one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knock with her hand.
“Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, mother?” she asked.
“In where?” said Beatrice.
“In this month’s Nash’s.”
“No,” replied Beatrice. “What time have I for reading, much less for anything else?”
“You should think more of yourself, and a little less of other people, then,” said Vera, with a sneer at the “other people.” She rose. “Let me do this. You sit down; you are tired, mother,” she said.
Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his thin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms on his knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking of crockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heard chatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fond tones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail to her. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity.
Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put
