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If ma had the right kind of gumption with you, she'd put a stop to it, all right." Mrs. Hassiebrock leaned her tired head sidewise into the moist palm of her hand. "She's beyond me and the days when a slipper could make her mind. I wisht to God there was a father to rule youse!"
Opening the door upon the Hassiebrock front room, convertible from bed- to sitting-room by the mere erect-position-stand of the folding-bed, a wave of this tarry heat came flowing out, gaseous, sickening.
At the left of the table Genevieve Hassiebrock, with thirteen's crab-like silhouette of elbow, rigid plaits, and nose still hitched to the star of her nativity, wound an exceedingly long arm about Miss Hassiebrock's trim waist-line. "I got B in de-portment to-day, Loo. You owe me the wear of your spats Sunday." Miss Hassiebrock squeezed the hand at her waist. "All right, honey.
When Miss Hassiebrock walked, her skirt, concealing yet revealing an inch glimmer of gray-silk stocking above gray-suede spats, allowed her ten inches of stride. She turned now, sidestepping within those ten inches. "See you to-morrow, Josie." "Ain't you taking the car?" "No, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, stepping down to cross the street; "you take it, but not for keeps."
Cut Loo a piece of bread." "Gussie Flint's mother scalded her leg with the wash-boiler." "Did she? Aw!" Mrs. Hassiebrock came then, limping around, tilting the contents of the steaming pot to a plate. "Sit down, ma; don't bother." Miss Hassiebrock drew up, pinning a fringed napkin that stuck slightly in the unfolding across her shining expanse of shirtwaist. Broke a piece of bread. Dipped.
If you girls had as much talent in your needle as you've got in your conversation, you might find yourselves somewheres." "Maybe what you call 'somewheres' is what lots of us would call 'nowheres." Miss Hassiebrock drew herself up and, from the suzerainty of sheer height, looked down upon Miss Beemis there, so brown and narrow beside the friendship-bracelet rack.
Hassiebrock, in the green black of a cotton umbrella and as sparse of frame, moved around to the gas-range, scraping a match and dragging a pot over the blue flame. "Never mind, ma; I ain't hungry."
Through this, and like Diana, who, so aloof from desire, walked in the path of her own splendor, strode Miss Hassiebrock, straight and forward of eye. Past the Stag Hotel, in an aisle formed by lounging young bloods and a curb lined with low, long-snouted motor-cars, the gaze beneath the red sailor and above the high, horsy stock a bit too rigidly conserved.
Another eight-thirty-to-six reality of muslin underwearing, crash toweling, and skirt-binding. But, not given to self-inventory, the Popular Store emptied itself with that blessed elasticity of spirit which, unappalled, stretches to to-morrows as they come. At Ninth Street Miss Lola Hassiebrock loosed her arm where Miss Beemis had linked into it.
"You can't, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, driven to vaudevillian extremities, "you're cracked." "Well, I may be cracked, but my good name ain't." A stiffening of Miss Hassiebrock took place, as if mere verbiage had suddenly flung a fang.
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