Mahogany, she declared, was hideously old fashioned, and rosewood was worse. Also, Sheraton and Hepplewhite styles had forever gone out; and no up-to-date home could afford to harbor their makers’ works.
So the antique lumber had gone in ignominy to storage, and the big house was outfitted with the most ultramodern gems of furniture from Cincinnati, Chicago, and even far-off New York.
Dad was to-day sensible, as never before, of the grandeur of his surroundings. The marble-topped center tables, the plush chairs and lambrequins, the art plaques and Rogers groups, all struck him afresh with their splendor.
He felt a vague thrill of pride that he was chosen as master pro tem. of it all. He hoped that Stage and the rest of the Eagle’s habitués would appreciate how great a dignity was his. He had taken good care that all of them should know of his new trusteeship.
He must be seen less in their company, he reflected. The master of the big house on the hill did not belong in a barroom. His visits to the Eagle must be fewer and less protracted.
He must do nothing to shake the sudden respect and desire for his presence wherewith his daughter-in-law had so recently become imbued.
As Dad hesitated in the hallway, Jimmie behind him, just then from one of the rear rooms Marcia Brinton appeared.
Dad, as he stepped toward her, tried to inject something of chivalric protection and fatherliness into the greeting he tendered this daughter-in-law of whom he had always been more than a little afraid.
“I have not had a chance,” he began rather pompously, “to tell you in person how I appreciate the honor you have done me in choosing me to represent your home and to look after its interests and yours in Joe’s absence. Though I asked Joe to say so for me. I shall do all I can to take his place worthily as head of the house and to serve you in every way in my power.”
Mrs. Brinton made no immediate answer, but looked at the elderly and not over-neat figure before her.