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"Drp Stud Win," said one; "Sum Slp Cov Bedrm," another; "Toil. Set & Pic Frms." Mrs. Brewster turned to her husband, almost shamefacedly, and yet with a little air of defiance. "It I don't know it made me not homesick, Hosey. Not homesick, exactly; but well, I guess I'm not the only woman with a walnut streak in her modern make-up. Here's the woman she came to the door with her hat on, and yet "
Truth blinding, white-hot truth burst in upon him. "Mother," he said and he stood up, suddenly robust, virile, alert "mother, let's go home." Mechanically she began to unpin the looped-back skirt. "When?" "Now." "But, Hosey! Pinky this flat until June " "Now! Unless you want to stay. Unless you like it here in this this make-believe, double-barrelled, duplex do-funny of a studio thing.
Brewster's hat, slippers, gown and manner equalled in line, style, cut and texture those of any other woman present, which rather surprised her until she had talked to five or six of them. She and Hosey drifted together and compared notes. "Say, Milly," he confided, "they're all from Wisconsin or approximately; Michigan and Minnesota, and Iowa, and around.
"Is that so? I'd like to talk to her, Hosey. Take me over." She did talk to the quiet little woman in the plain blue suit. And the quiet little woman said: "Oh, dear, yes!" She ignored her r's fascinatingly, as New Yorkers do. "We live in Connecticut. You see, you Wisconsin people have crowded us out of New York; no breathing space. Besides, how can one live here? I mean to say live.
He turned the knob, gently; tiptoed in and, turning, fell over a heavy wooden object that lay directly in his path in the dim little hall. A barked shin. A good round oath. "Hosey! What's the matter? What " She came running to him. She led him into the bright front room. "What was that thing? A box or something, right there in front of the door. What the " "Oh, I'm so sorry, Hosey.
Seem t' like it better'n where they come from. I dunno." Hosey Brewster took to eying them as Mrs. Brewster had eyed the women. He wondered about them, these tight, trim men, rather short of breath, buttoned so snugly into their shining shoes and their tailored clothes, with their necks bulging in a fold of fat above the back of their white linen collar. He knew that he would never be like them.
When he sang "The Dying Cowboy's Lament" and came to the passage, "Oh, take me to the churchyard and lay the sod o-o-over me," Mrs. Brewster used to say: "Gussie, Mr. Brewster'll be down in ten minutes. You can start the eggs." In the months of their gay life in Sixty-Seventh Street Hosey Brewster never once sang "The Dying Cowboy's Lament," nor whistled "In the Sweet By-and-By."
When he sang "The Dying Cowboy's Lament" and came to the passage, "Oh, take me to the churchyard and lay the sod o-o-over me," Mrs. Brewster used to say: "Gussie, Mr. Brewster'll be down in ten minutes. You can start the eggs." In the months of their gay life in Sixty-seventh Street, Hosey Brewster never once sang "The Dying Cowboy's Lament," nor whistled "In the Sweet By-and-By."
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