He had bought two tickets for a river excursion, and was hurrying into the Beavers' when he encountered a stolid bulwark in the form of Mrs. Beaver, whose portly person seemed permanently wedged into the narrow aperture of the front door. She sat in silent majesty, her hands just succeeding in clasping each other around her ample waist. Had she closed her eyes, she might have passed for a placid, amiable person, whose angles of disposition had also become curves. But Mrs. Beaver did not close her eyes. She opened them as widely as the geography of her face would permit, and coldly surveyed Joe Ridder.
Mrs. Beaver was a born manager; she had managed her husband into an untimely grave, she had managed her daughter from the hour she was born, she had dismissed three preachers, induced two women to leave their husbands, and now dogmatically announced herself arbiter of fashions and conduct in Rear Ninth Street.
"No, she can't see you," she said firmly in reply to Joe's question. "She's going out to a dance party with Mr. Schenk."
"Where at?" demanded Joe, who still trembled in her presence.
"Somewheres down town," said Mrs. Beaver, "to a real swell party."
"He oughtn't to take her to no down-town dance," said Joe, his indignation getting the better of his shyness. "I don't want her to go, and I'm going to tell her so."
"In-deed!" said Mrs. Beaver in scorn. "And what have you got to say about it? I guess Mr. Schenk's got the right to take her anywhere he wants to!"
"What right?" demanded Joe, getting suddenly a bit dizzy.
"'Cause he's got engaged to her. He's going to give her a real handsome turquoise ring, fourteen-carat gold."
"Didn't Mittie send me no word?" faltered Joe.