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Then again the glittering present studded with the jewels of fulfilment lay on her brow like the thin line of a headache, pressing out the past. In Mrs. Meyerburg's bedroom a great arched ceiling, after the narrative manner of Paolo Veronese, lent such vastness to the apartment that moving across it, or sitting in her great overstuffed armchair beside a window, she hardly struck a note.
Meyerburg's room of many periods, its vastness so emphasized by the ceiling after Paolo Veronese, its fluted yellow-silk bed canopy reaching up to that ceiling stately and theatric enough to shade the sleep of a shah, limped Mrs. Fischlowitz timidly and with the uncertainty with which the callous feet of the unsocialistic poor tread velvet. "How-do, Mrs. Fischlowitz?" "Mrs.
"Always I used to make it with a short crust for my Isadore. How he loved it!" "Just again, Mrs. Meyerburg, I want you should let me say how how this is the finest present what I ever had in my life. I can tell you from just how soft it is on me, I can tell how it must feel to ride in automobile." A light flashed in brilliance up into Mrs. Meyerburg's face. "Mrs. Fischlowitz!" "Ja, Mrs.
Meyerburg's bedchamber, the buzz of departures over, silence lay resumed, but with a singing quality to it as if an echo or so still lingered. Before the plain deal table, and at her side two files bulging their contents, Mrs. Meyerburg sat with her spatulate finger conning in among a page of figures. After a while the finger ceased to move across the page, but lay passive midway down a column.
He was the one in this family that made it big, because he wasn't afraid of big things." Further rage trembled along Mrs. Meyerburg's voice, and the fingers she waggled trembled, too, of that same wrath. "You'm a bad girl, Becky! You'm a bad girl with thought only for yourself. Always your papa said by each child we should do the same.
"Masseltov, ma," said Rebecca Meyerburg, raising her glass and her moist eyes shining above it. The five daughters-in-law followed immediate suit. At Miss Meyerburg's left the Marquis Rosencrantz, with pointed features and a silhouette sharp as a knife edge, raised his glass and his waxed mustache and drank, but silently and over a deep bow. "Mamma mother dear, the marquis drinks to you." Mrs.
Meyerburg's eyes and she laid her cheek to the brown fur collar, a tear dropping to it. "You'm right, Mrs. Fischlowitz, I I can't give this up. I he a coat he bought once for me at auction when he oser could afford it. I you must excuse me, Mrs. Fischlowitz." "That's right, Mrs. Meyerburg, for a remembrance you should keep it." Then brightening: "But I got in the next room, Mrs.
Like I told Roody this morning, she's bringing a title into the family, but she's taking a big wad of the Meyerburg money out of the country too." "It is so, ain't it?" Around her crowded Mrs. Meyerburg's five sons. "Come with us, ma. We got a children's party up in the ballroom for Aileen this afternoon, and then Trixie and I are going to motor down to Sheepshead for the indoor polo-match.
Meyerburg with her hands idle and laid out along the chair sides. They were ringless hands and full of years, with a great network of veins across their backs and the aging fingers large at the knuckles. But where the hands betrayed the eyes belied. Deep in Mrs. Meyerburg's soft and scarcely flabby face her gaze was straight and very black.
"Always by each child we should do the same, he said. Five hundred thousand dollars to our girl when she marries a fine, good man. Even back in days when he had not a cent to leave after him, always he said alike you should all be treated. Always, you hear? Always." Fire had dried the tears in Mrs. Meyerburg's eyes and her face had resumed its fixity of lines.
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