“Sixteen a week isn’t much,” said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his shoulder blades.
Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march. Shopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for a dozen handkerchiefs.
“Maybe I’ll get a raise next month,” said Thomas. “I’ll be around to-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap.”
“All right,” said Celia. “Annette’s married cousin pays only $20 a month for a flat in the Bronx.”
Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt Henrietta’s invincible pride of caste and pa’s mightiness as a Colossus of cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her grocer’s young man might go whistle for their living.
Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with “The Devil’s Dream,” whistled keenly between his teeth.
“Raised to eighteen a week yesterday,” he said. “Been pricing flats around Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and unpinning that cap, old girl.”
“Oh, Tommy!” said Celia, with her broadest smile, “Won’t that he enough? I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess we could call it a flat pudding if we wanted to.”
“And tell no lie,” said Thomas.
