"Oh, Mr. Wainwright's simple. Roger says his god is simplicity." But as Anne herself was not quite sure how Roger sometimes meant this, she hurried over the puzzled stare in her mother's eyes. "Next Wednesday at seven."
Hilda sparkled. She had never eaten later than six and the fashionable, if inconvenient hour, clinched her belief in Roger's efficiency.
"I'll finish my new waist for the occasion and see that papa gets a good shave."
She went as far as the street corner with Anne and gave her an extra hug.
"Going to dinner with my married daughter. Why, I feel like a young girl going to her first dance."
Anne kissed her. "You dear thing, you're going to eat a lot of meals of your daughter's contriving only—don't expect too much this first time. In spite of my boasting, I'm not always absolutely sure, especially about salad dressing and gravy."
"I'll take a chance." Hilda nodded, her eyes so bright, that Anne drew her quickly back and kissed her again.
"Don't forget, seven sharp."
"We'll be there in cap and bells, never fear."
She stood on the pavement until Anne had disappeared, then went smiling back to the flat. Hilda Mitchell was indeed deeply grateful for her daughter's happiness. In spite of her denial of the fear that Anne might have been an old maid, she had never been quite sure of Anne's powers of attraction. Anne was so "highfalutin'," what Belle called a "spiritual aristocrat"; and, like most women who refer to the physical relation with their husbands as "duty," Hilda considered spinsterhood a disgrace.