Harcourt, still looking incredulous, came back with a lace cloth, which he flung on the tea table crooked, to show his disapproval.
"Was it chilly driving out? It seems so cold for October. As I was saying, Harcourt—Hm! Oh dear! I seem to have a frog in my throat. Hm!"
Harcourt slammed down the tea tray, and Carrie began a wavering pouring out, murmuring: "I'm afraid it's pretty strong. Two lumps, Kate? I'm afraid the water isn't very hot"
Kate sat tensely in her low tufted chair of old-gold satin, with its fringe like sausage curls, trying to keep her cup from dripping—Carrie had slopped most of the tea into the saucer. How easily Joe was taking everything, teasing Carrie, sending Harcourt for matches. She would be like him, perfectly natural.
"What a lovely house!" she exclaimed, startling herself by her vehemence.
Now why had she said that? She thought it was the most depressing place she had ever gotten into. Grand, but so gloomy. A stopped clock over an empty fireplace of marble like foie gras full of truffles, family portraits, and paintings of autumn woodlands in heavy gilt frames, these surrounded by plush-lined shadow boxes whose glass turned the dark pictures into mirrors. A marble bust of Uncle Elisha Whipple, ghostly in the cold half light. And those old bearskin rugs, tripping people up.
Blblb! What strong tea! It puckered her mouth—
