Tom: Don’t know—nervous, I guess,—worn out. I wish—(Breaks off).
Rachel (Slowly): It may be that; but she hasn’t been herself this afternoon. I wonder—. Look out! Here she comes!
Tom (In a whisper): Liven her up. (Rachel nods. Mrs. Loving reenters. Both rush to her and lead her to her place at the right end of the table. She smiles and tries to appear cheerful. They sit down, Tom opposite Mrs. Loving and Rachel at the side facing front. Mrs. Loving asks grace. Her voice trembles. She helps the children bountifully, herself sparingly. Every once in a while she stops eating and stares blankly into her plate; then, remembering where she is suddenly, looks around with a start and goes on eating. Tom and Rachel appear not to notice her).
Tom: Ma’s “some” cook, isn’t she?
Rachel: Is she! Delmonico’s isn’t in it.
Tom (Presently): Say, Rachel, do you remember that Reynolds boy in the fourth year?
Rachel: Yes. You mean the one who is flat-nosed, freckled, and who squints and sneers?
Tom (Looking at Rachel admiringly): The same.
Rachel (Vehemently): I hate him!
Mrs. Loving: Rachel, you do use such violent language. Why hate him?