A FAMILY DISCUSSION
Ellen settled herself on the most uncomfortable chair in the room for the simple reason that it was the only one left her, the others being occupied by her elders, relatives of various sorts. She pulled down her skimpy black skirt over the length of rusty-looking stockings which covered her long legs, and gave herself up to a survey of the articles in the room. There were so many little gimcracks that Ellen considered she could entertain herself by looking at them while the others talked and talked. She was not interested in the conversation at first, but suddenly she withdrew her gaze from a group of wax flowers and fruit under glass, and sat up very straight. They were talking about her!
“Being a bachelor whose housekeeper would leave if a child were foisted upon her care, I couldn’t consider taking her, housekeepers not growing upon every bush these days,” said Mr. Josiah Crump, a bald-headed pot-bellied old gentleman.
Ellen pictured a bush with housekeepers dangling from it, and wondered what such might be called.
But this fancy left her when Mr. Crump continued, “I always liked Rosanne and haven’t a thing against her daughter, but I never cared much for that artist husband.”
“Gerald North was a dear, a perfect dear,” spoke up pretty Mrs. Lauretta Barton; “I always liked him and so did Bobby.”
“No business sense; impractical,” Mr. Crump differed with her. “No man has any right to go off to war and get killed, leaving his family unprovided for; it makes it very awkward for them, and furnishes an unpleasant subject for the relatives to contemplate. I don’t believe in having unpleasant subjects brought up when they might be avoided.”
“I don’t like unpleasant subjects myself,” sighed Mrs. Barton, “but they have to be faced when they are thrust upon you. I wish I could advise, or, indeed, assume the responsibility of the child myself, but in my delicate state of health it would be impossible; it would be entirely too great a task.”
“Delicate fiddlesticks!” broke in Miss Orinda Crump. “What you need, Lauretta, is some vital interest to take you out of yourself.”
“If only Bobby were living,” murmured Mrs. Barton.