United States or Bangladesh ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Martie's brain was still busily milling, as she wheeled the coach back through the checkered sun and shade of the elevated train. She would bump the coach down into the area, carefully loading her arms with small packages, catching Margar to her shoulder. Panting, the perspiration breaking out on her forehead, she would enter the dining room. "Take her, Isabeau! My arms are breaking!
The man over her head, busy with his lights; the one or two shirt-sleeved, elderly men who invariably stood dispassionately watching the performance; the stage-hands; the various members of the cast: for all these she had a smile, and their answering smiles were Martie's delight.
They were in Mason and White's, seated at a counter, in consultation over a purchase of hairpins, when two gloved hands were suddenly pressed over Martie's eyes, and a joyous voice said "Hello!" The next instant Rose's eyes were laughing into hers. "Rose Ransome!" Martie and Lydia said together. The two younger girls began to chatter eagerly. Why, when had she gotten home? Only this morning.
Len rather pompous, and with a moustache! explained why his wife could not be there: the two-year-old daughter was not very well. Martie questioned him eagerly of his two children. Both girls, Len said gloomily; he asked his sister if she realized that there was not a Monroe yet. Lydia wept a few tears; "Martie, dear, to see you in black!" and Martie's eyes watered, and her lip shook.
Wallace, rumpling and kissing his daughter, would give her a reproachful look. Martie's face always darkened resentfully at such a speech. Sometimes she did not answer. "Perhaps if YOU couldn't sleep," she might say in a low, shaken tone, "and you felt as miserable as I do, you might not be so cheerful!" "Oh, well, I know! But you know it's nothing serious, and it won't last. Forget it!
Miss Pepper, the seamstress, engaged for one day only to do the important work on both Sally's and Martie's gown, kept postponing, as she always did postpone, the day, finally appointing the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Day. Pa's cousin, a certain Mrs.
Martie's thrilled interest firing him to-night, he exerted himself: told stories in Chinese dialect, in brogue, and with an excellent Scotch burr; he went to the rickety piano, and from the loose keys, usually set in motion by a nickel in the slot, he evoked brilliant songs, looking over his shoulder with his sentimental bold eyes at the company as he sang.
Rose's little daughter, pawn that she was in the game of Martie's fortunes, was pushed into play the following day. For Rose telephoned Martie at the Library, in the foggy early morning, that Doris was not well: there was a rather suspicious rash on the baby's chest, and if it really were measles, there must be no announcement luncheon to-day.
And Sally knew nothing of it. A sudden lonely blankness fell upon Martie's soul; it mattered nothing to Lydia and Rose and Sally that John Dryden loved her. It mattered more than life to her. What use to talk of it? How flat the words would seem for that memory of everything high and splendid. Yet she felt the need of speech.
We talked a lot, we hit it off awfully well, and he thinks there's a dandy chance for me down there! He says he could get me twenty jobs, and he wants me to go back when he goes " "But, Wallace " Martie's quick enthusiasm was firing. "But what about the children?" "Why, they'd come along. Buff says piles of Americans down there have children, you just have to dress 'em light "
Word Of The Day