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Updated: June 14, 2025
"You're all right!" exclaimed Emma McChesney's listener, suddenly. "How a woman like you can waste her time on the road is more than I can see. And I want to thank you. I'm not such a fool " "I haven't let you finish a sentence so far and I'm not going to yet. Wait a minute. There's one more paragraph to this sermon. You remember what I told you about old stagers, and the roast beef diet?
She turned to the waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray, will you?" Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point." "Point?" "About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what applies to pastry applies to petticoats?
It only served to set Emma McChesney's more splendidly on her shoulders. Not too splendidly, however; for, with her marriage to her handsome business partner, T. A. Buck, that well-set, independent head was found to fit very cozily into the comfortable hollow formed by T. A. Buck's right arm. "Emma," Buck had said, just before their marriage, "what is the arrangement to be after after "
I said then that marriage was a thing tried and abandoned forever, for me. And now " There was something almost fine in the lines of T. A. Buck's too feminine mouth and chin; but not fine enough. "Now, Emma," he repeated, "will you marry me?" Emma McChesney's eyes were a wonderful thing to see, so full of pain were they, so wide with unshed tears.
The next instant Emma McChesney's lace nightgown was crushed against the top of a correctly high-cut vest, and her tears coursed, unmolested, down the folds of an exquisitely shaded lavender silk necktie. "Jock!" cried Emma McChesney; and then, "Oh, my son, my son, my beautiful boy!" like a woman in a play.
Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now it's a chore." She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. "If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like company, why don't you ask somebody else that's lonesome." After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow.
There was nothing of jauntiness about him. His eyelids were red. His face had the doughy look of one whose sleep has been brief and feverish. As he came toward his mother you noticed a stain on his coat, and a sunburst of wrinkles across one leg of his modish brown trousers. "Good-morning, son!" said Emma McChesney. "Was it as bad as that?" Jock McChesney's long fingers curled into a fist.
"Well, sir," said I, "I was grinding corn at the mill when the man came. I thought him a smooth-mannered person, and he did not give his business. He was just for wheedling me. 'And was this McChesney's mill? said he. 'Ay, said I. 'Thomas McChesney? 'Ay, said I. Then he was all for praise of Thomas McChesney. 'Where is he? said he.
"I've an engagement to take dinner with a bunch of the fellows. We're going down to the Inn. Sorry." A certain cold rigidity settled over Emma McChesney's face. She eyed her son in silence until his miserable eyes, perforce, looked up into hers. "I'm afraid you'll have to break your engagement," she said. She turned to face Mary Cutting's regretful, understanding gaze.
We're putting up cots in the hall." Emma McChesney's keen blue eyes glanced up from their inspection of the little bunch of mail which had just been handed her. "Well, pick out a hall with a southern exposure and set up a cot or so for me," she said, agreeably; "because I've come to stay.
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