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Updated: April 30, 2025
"I thought so," commented Elviry. "How much was the goods a yard six cents? I thought so. Hum Margery's every day shirtwaists were none of them less than thirty-nine cents a yard, in New York. But of course that's beyond you. I don't suppose your father's had a raise, yet. He ain't that kind. Does he pay Levine any rent for that cottage?" "Of course, every month!" exclaimed Lydia, indignantly.
"What do you want?" "I brought Marg some flowers," answered Lydia, awkwardly. Elviry hesitated. "Margery's been having a headache and I don't know as she'd want to see you." Lydia was not entirely daunted. "Well, if you're getting supper you might let me come and sit in the kitchen a few minutes. It's quite a walk in from the cottage."
So Bas set his basket down and removed his hat and let his powerful shoulders relax themselves restfully against the door frame. He was waiting for Dorothy, and he was glad that the obnoxious Elviry had gone. After a little Dorothy appeared. Her lips were innocent of the flippant sneer that the other girl's had held and her beauty was not so full-blown or material.
She sat down in the rocker by the dining-room door and Elviry began to stir a kettle of catsup that was simmering on the back of the stove. This was worse than Lydia had thought it would be. She had not calculated on Dave's being at home. However, her fighting blood was up. "You haven't asked me about my clothes, Mrs. Marshall," she said. "Don't you think I did pretty well with this skirt?"
"You hush up, Margery! What I came for is that Mr. Marshall would like to have the three of you come to our house for Thanksgiving dinner." Lydia suddenly giggled. "Don't worry, Mrs. Marshall, we can't come. We're going to have company ourselves for Thanksgiving." Elviry gave a huge sigh of relief. "Well, that's too bad," she said. "We're going to have a grand dinner, too."
"If you think I'm going to have any old bossy, beery German like Gustus'll be, you're mistaken. Kent comes of fine Puritan stock." "Your ancestors don't pay the bills," said Elviry, sharply. "If your father has that extra money he's expecting at Christmas time, you'll just go East to boarding-school, Margery." "I don't want to go," protested Margery. "I love High School." "Makes no difference.
I always prayed he'd get his come-uppers, and Elviry too. But I am sorry for Margery. Poor young one! Her future's ruined." Lydia, sitting on the front steps in the lovely September afternoons, rubbed Adam's ears, watched the pine and the Norton herds and thought some long, long thoughts.
"If Elviry Marshall would pass now, I'd be perfectly happy," she murmured. Billy and Lydia entered the woods in silence and followed a sun-flecked aisle until the sound of the celebration was muffled save for the shrill notes of the mechanical piano, which had but two tunes, "Under the Bamboo Tree" and the "Miserere."
Elviry Marshall had two consuming passions in life Margery and gossip. The questions she asked always irritated Lydia vaguely. "What wages is your Pa getting now, Lydia?" "Just the same, Mrs. Marshall." "Don't you pay Lizzie anything yet?" "No, Ma'am." "How much is your grocery bill this month?" "I don't know." "Does your Pa ever talk about getting married again?" "No, Ma'am! Oh, no, Ma'am!"
"Nothing," she said shortly, looking at the rope portières in the doorway. "I got new ones in the East," said Elviry, following her glance. "Shells strung together. But I put 'em up only when we have parties. We don't use anything but doilies on the dining table now, no tablecloths. It's the latest thing in New York. Who made your shirtwaist, Lydia?" "I did," answered Lydia, not without pride.
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