“All the more reason for her to keep them!” he returned, irritably. “We're not THAT far gone, I think!”
“Perhaps not yet,” Mrs. Vertrees said. “She seems to be troubled about the—the coal matter and—about Tilly. Of course the piano will take care of some things like those for a while and—”
“I don't like it. I gave her the piano to play on, not to—”
“You mustn't be distressed about it in ONE way,” she said, comfortingly. “She arranged with the—with the purchaser that the men will come for it about half after five in the afternoon. The days are so short now it's really quite winter.”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed, moodily. “So far as that goes people have a right to move a piece of furniture without stirring up the neighbors, I suppose, even by daylight. I don't suppose OUR neighbors are paying much attention just now, though I hear Sheridan was back in his office early the morning after the funeral.”
Mrs. Vertrees made a little sound of commiseration. “I don't believe that was because he wasn't suffering, though. I'm sure it was only because he felt his business was so important. Mary told me he seemed wrapped up in his son's succeeding; and that was what he bragged about most. He isn't vulgar in his boasting, I understand; he doesn't talk a great deal about his—his actual money—though there was something about blades of grass that I didn't comprehend. I think he meant something about his energy—but perhaps not. No, his bragging usually seemed to be not so much a personal vainglory as about his family and the greatness of this city.”
“'Greatness of this city'!” Mr. Vertrees echoed, with dull bitterness. “It's nothing but a coal-hole! I suppose it looks 'great' to the man who has the luck to make it work for him. I suppose it looks 'great' to any YOUNG man, too, starting out to make his fortune out of it. The fellows that get what they want out of it say it's 'great,' and everybody else gets the habit. But you have a different point of view if it's the city that got what it wanted out of you! Of course Sheridan says it's 'great'.”
Mrs. Vertrees seemed unaware of this unusual outburst. “I believe,” she began, timidly, “he doesn't boast of—that is, I understand he has never seemed so interested in the—the other one.”
Her husband's face was dark, but at that a heavier shadow fell upon it; he looked more haggard than before. “'The other one',” he repeated, averting his eyes. “You mean—you mean the third son—the one that was here this evening?”
“Yes, the—the youngest,” she returned, her voice so feeble it was almost a whisper.