“Don’t you care about housework?”
“Well, I ain’t crazy about it, but it’s got to be done. Ma says: ‘ ’tain’t no use killin’ yourself over cleanin’ a house—it only gets dirty all over again.’ And Ma’s nearly always right.”
Marjorie sat almost dumfoundedly looking back and forth between Katie and Howard. Surely she must be dreaming all this. Her wonderful boy—intending to marry this girl who couldn’t even speak grammatically.
“Please pour my coffee, mother.” Howard was anxious to say something.
“Yes, dear.” She began pouring the coffee, her mind miles away from what she was doing.
“You’re spilling it, mother.” He stopped her, impatiently.
“I—I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured as she handed a cup to Katie. “I don’t know what made me so careless.”
She never remembered how she finished the meal. With a sort of fascinated horror she kept her eyes upon the girl whom her son had chosen. It was really pitiful to watch the child struggling to handle her knife and fork correctly. Once or twice Marjorie tried to draw her into a conversation, but when she realized how uncomfortable she was making her, she gave it up. So it was Howard who kept up a meaningless chatter until the supper was over.
“I—I think I’ll be goin’ now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Benton,” Kate Walsh announced as soon as they rose. “Ma will wonder what’s keepin’ me. Thank you for my elegant supper. I enjoyed it very much.”
She lost no time getting her hat and bag.