Martin laughed good-naturedly. His mirth had the old-time extraordinary infectious quality.
“Don’t bother about mixing a cocktail to-night, Martin dear,” Ruthie said in a persuasive voice. “It takes you so long with the ice and everything, and dinner’s late, now.”
“I’ll have a little of the straight stuff, then,” he said, still rubbing his hands in high good humor.
They went together into the dining-room through the double glass doors, curtained in shirred folds of pink silk. The table was glittering with polished silverware and sparkling glass; in the center was a low fern in a metal fern-dish. Martin unlocked a door in the sideboard, took out a whisky bottle, held it up a moment to the light to inspect the measure of its contents, and poured himself an inch into a tumbler.
“D’you remember that guy who used always to say ‘Saloon’ when he was taking a drink?” asked Martin, grinning at Jeannette. “He was a card all right? ... Well, ‘saloon!’”
He drained the drink in two gulps, followed it with a draught of water, and sat down, smacking his lips.
A maid appeared, bearing a tureen of soup, and presently passed cheese straws. Jeannette observed her spotless white bibbed apron and black dress, and she took note of the fine sprays of celery and olives in side dishes on the table, twinkling with ice. The dinner proceeded comfortably,—well-served, well-cooked, stereotyped: a roast of beef, with potatoes browned in the pan, canned French peas, a salad of chopped apples and nuts, a dessert of cake and ice-cream. She recalled with a sharp twinge the “company” dinners she had struggled so hard to prepare for Martin and his friends, and the effort she had made to serve him things he liked so as to make him want to stay at home.... Ah, she had tried, she reminded herself, she had really tried hard to be a good wife to him! ... It was all so much easier for Ruthie; she had her cook, her waitress, and there was even the chauffeur. So easy to sit still and merely tell them what to do! ... And Martin? ... Well, he had matured, he had settled down, was more seasoned, more reasonable, more disciplined.... She noticed for the first time a jagged white scar on his right temple; it had not been there when she had known him!
Throughout dinner he was in the gayest of spirits; Ruthie turned bright alert eyes from one face to the other; Jeannette felt the last vestige of constraint slip from her. The talk was all of Tinker and Josephus, of the good schools of Jenkintown, of motor cars and the future of the automobile industry, of traffic laws and Philadelphia and things in general. Every once in awhile a chance remark would sound a personal note, but the three with one accord would veer away from it and pursue another topic. There was no telling where rocks of disaster might be hidden.
But after dinner, when Martin stood before the sucking coal fire in the living-room, stirring his coffee, a fresh cigar tilted up in the corner of his mouth, his head twisted to one side to avoid the smoke, it was evident the moment had arrived when he wanted to hear news of his old friends and start recalling old times. Tinker and her brother presented themselves to say good-night and their mother made them an excuse for leaving her husband and her guest together.
“She’s far smarter than one would ever suspect from that affected bright expression,” thought Jeannette smiling at the children as they tumbled themselves out of the room.