The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1909-02-04
;s vol1r last word 2"

"Emphatioally." His eyes avoided the
pretty flushed face of his wife and
swept the wide drawing room with an
apprising, glance. What more do you
want ?"
He threw his hands out with pom
derous gesture that somehow fitted his
stolid British presence as finely as the
light shrug of the shoulder fits the
Frenchman and his face hardened into
obstinate lines.
But she said nothing in return.
Stung by her pregnant silence, ne
went on: 'I'm a plain city man, with
no pretensions! What was good enough
in nv fathers time is good enough for
me. 7 don't hold with the present ride
ulous fashion in houses. It's simply an
excuse for squandering money. My par
ents lived here and chose the furniture,
and it's all good of it's kind-Early Vic
torian, if you like, but solid end hand
some-far better 40 He checked
himself with an effort under the sudden
temptation to allude to the poverty from
which he had rescued his bride but two
years since, and went on hurriedly, with
a heightened color: cts no good, Iris,
you'll have to make it dol"
But she guessed the trend of the SEN
tence so clumsily suppressed, and her
eyes narrowed with annoyance as, fol-
lowing his gaze, they rested on a por-
trait on the farther wall, that of port
ly lady in lavender silk dress, with
smoothly parted hair drawn over her
ears and bearing the insignia of her
office. massive silver chatelaine, which
the artist had infinitely reproduced in
detail, perhaps in utter hopelessness over
the hard middle class face.
Yet. for all that, certain look OF
pride crept into her sons eyes as he
gazed up at the-so-called! -"work of
art
eff you follow her." he said with a
nod, "you won't 90 far wrong! And
now / must be Off"
With third of the money she now
could claim what life could have been
hers in the little flat by the busy gate
what treasures of art, what feasts of
intellect! For now she had the means,
she lacked the environment.
She thought with a shudder of the
formal dinners their present style of
entertainment invariably took, and, al
though she loved her husband, she re-
belled in the depths of her bohemian
heart at the life she had voluntarily
and even thankfully stepped into.
But in those days it had meant COM
fort not only for herself, but for the
practically dying mother, and the peace
full assurance to the latter of the safety
of her child after she herself had passed
through the dark valley.
Tt had been all for the best.
She pulled herself together with an
effort OF courage as her mind ran back
to her mothers death
After the first shock of her grief she
had given herself up to improving che
gloomy Bloomsbury mansion; picking up
quaint, inexpensive old chairs, discard
ING the heavier ones, adding bright, ar
tistic chintzes, and consigEing the ''im-
possible curtains to the depths of the
lumber room.
All so quietly and inobtrusively that
her husband from his pinnacle on the
rock of conservatism had hardly real
lied the change until this eventful day.
Then, through the stupidity of shop
man, a fine old dresser had arrived at
the precise moment when Cecil Arm
strong was leaving for a weeks fishing
in the north Explanations had been
precipitated, and the veto had gone forth.
Anyhow she had treasure of a cook
that weapon in the hands of wife!-
and she wondered with a little smile of
amusement, what the prim figure with
the chatelaine would say to the modern
cuisine.
"Extravagant kickshaws, expect" she
said to herself, and, as if in answer to
her thought, an idea flashed into her
mind, a1comedy of revenge against that
debatable family taste,' so complete
and alluring that her laugh rang out in
the somber room.
1t was pouring wet evening when
Cecil Armstrong returned to town The
weather for the last few days had been
unsettled, the fishing bad, and the first
novelty of "roughing it" had given way
to steadily growing disgust at the dis
comfort of perpetually wet clothes and
smoky fires.
He leaned back in the hanson and
gave sigh of relief as, crossing Oxford
street, they turned up into Bloomsbury,
and he pictured to himself the discreet
welcome of Robert, the comfort of the
brightly lit house, and the well-cool<ed
dinner with his pretty young wife.
She was standing just outside the
drawing room door-not in the pretty
evening dress he had somehow antici-
pated, but very straight and slim in a
plain gray silk, devoid of ornament, and
from her waist there hung his mothers
chatelaine.
'Unobservant by nature, he yet felt
there was something instinctively wrong
about her hair, and, although she greet
ed him affectionately, a little chill crept
into the subtle sense of homecoming.
All the hundred and one little improve
ments-the scattered embroideries and
masses of plants and carelessly arranged
flowers-were missing. The old heavily
framed prints were back on the dull
gray walls, and, albeit the night was
chilly, no fire burned in the crate, where
a painted screen was balanced, with an
impossible waterfall that threatened to
deluge the steel fender and pour out
over the enormous bear-skin rug
He enjoyed his Scotch broth thorough
ly, but when it was followed by mas
sive joint of cold sirloin, placed, not on
the carving table, but, in all it's majesty,
under his very nose, hiding his disap-
pointment with an heroic effort, he sug-
gested an explanation himself.
Something gone wrong in the kitchen,
| suppose, my dear?" a
"Wrong?" said his wife, innocently,
Il hope not 1t looked an excellent
joint. | saw it cut myself" There was
pride in her steady voice, but she
dropped her eyes before his astonished