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Updated: June 12, 2025
I thought I was father's lord and chauffeur, but he sniffs the smoke of the ticker. In his mind, he's already back in the office, running things. He'll probably turn me over to Jeff, for disciplining! You won't let them change me back into a pink-face, will you? Come to tea, at the Gilsons', just as soon as you reach Seattle." "Tea Now we're so near your Gilsons, I begin to get scared.
G'-by." She sauntered back to the picnic, and observed, "What is that purple flower up on the mountain side?" The big car was sedately purring back when it was insulted by an intermediate host of a machine that came jumping out of a side road. The vulgar driver hailed them with uncouth howling. The Gilsons' chauffeur stopped, annoyed. "Why, hello folks," bawled the social bandit. "Oh.
He was viewing the kitchen upon the occasion of an intimate Sunday evening supper to which he had been yearningly invited by Mrs. Gilson. The maids were all out. The Gilsons and Claire, Milt and Jeff Saxton, shoutingly prepared their own supper. While Mrs. Gilson scrambled eggs and made coffee, the others set the table, and brought cold ham and a bowl of salad from the ice-box.
But the Gilsons and Jeff Saxton were happy about it all till the car turned from a main thoroughfare upon a muddy street of shacks that clung like goats to the sides of a high cut, a street unchanged from the pioneer days of Seattle. "Good heavens, Claire, you aren't taking us to see Aunt Hatty, are you?" wailed Mrs. Gilson. "Oh yes, indeed. I knew the boys would like to meet her."
Gilson answered almost meekly, "Well, if you think Would you like to walk, Claire?" As he tramped off with Claire, Milt demanded, "Glad to escape?" "Yes, and I'm glad you refused dinner. It really has been wearing, this trial by food." "This is the last time I'll dare to meet the Gilsons." "And I'll have to be going back East. I hope the Gilsons will forgive me, some day."
Milt made tea, ignoring them, while Bill entertained the Gilsons and Saxtons with Rabelaisian stories of threshing-time when shirts prickly with chaff and gritty with dust stuck to sweat-dripping backs; of the "funny thing" of Milt and Bill being hired to move a garbage-pile and "swiping" their employer's "mushmelons"; of knotting shirts at the swimming-hole so that the bawling youngsters had to "chaw beef"; of drinking beer in the livery-stable at Melrose; of dropping the water-pitcher from a St.
Must make 'em out of old piqué collars." He endured his martyrdom till his party arrived the Gilsons, Claire, Jeff Saxton, and a glittering young woman whose name, Milt thought, was Mrs. Corey. And Saxton wasn't wearing a high hat! He wore a soft one, and he didn't seem to care!
Claire had forgotten how many charming, most desirable things there were in the world. The Gilsons drove up Queen Anne Hill to a bay-fronting house on a breezy knob a Georgian house of holly hedge, French windows, a terrace that suggested tea, and a great hall of mahogany and white enamel with the hint of roses somewhere, and a fire kindled in the paneled drawing-room to be seen beyond the hall.
Milt had desperately tried to make his answer gracious but somehow He hated this devil's obsequiousness more than he had his chilliness at Flathead Lake. He had a feeling that the Gilsons had delightedly kicked each other under the table; that, for all her unchanging smile, Claire was unhappy.... And she was so far off, a white wraith floating beyond his frantic grasp. "It doesn't matter, really.
When a pair of finishing-school flappers like Betz and Corey try to impress me with their superiority to workmen, and their extreme aristocracy and Easternness, they make me tired. I am the East!" She had made peace with the Gilsons by night; she had been reasonably repentant about not playing the game of her hosts; but inside her eager heart she snuggled a warm thought.
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