When Paul came in, he seemed abstracted, and went directly upstairs to pack a satchel, stating with his usual absence of explanatory comment that he was called to Evanston on business. He ate his dinner rather silently, glancing furtively at the paper. Only at the breakfast-table—such was their convention—did he allow himself to become absorbed in the news.
Ariadne prattled to her mother of her adventures in the kitchen, where Patsy O’Hern, ’Stashie’s cousin Patsy, was visiting her, and he made Ariadne a “horse out of a potato and toothpicks for legs, and a little wagon out of a matchbox, and a paper doll to sit and drive, and Patsy was perfectly loverly, anyhow, and he was making such a lot of money every day, and, oh, he made the wheels out of potato, too, as round as could be he cut it, and he gave every cent of it to his grandmother and she loved him as much as she did ’Stashie, and wasn’t it good to have ’Stashie back, and—”
Paul frowned silently over his pie.
“Come, dear; it’s seven o’clock and bedtime,” said Lydia, leading the little girl away.
When she came back she noticed by the clock that she had been gone almost half an hour. She was surprised to see Paul still in the dining-room, as though he had not stirred since she left him. He was sitting in an attitude of moody idleness, singular with him, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. He looked desperately, tragically tired.
No inward monitor gave any warning to Lydia of what the next few moments were to be in her life. She crossed the room quickly to her husband, feeling a great longing to be close to him.
As she did so, a rattling clatter of tin was heard from the kitchen, followed by a shout of roaring laughter. Something in Paul’s tense face snapped. He started up, overturning his chair. “Oh, damn that idiot!” he cried.
The door opened behind them. ’Stashie stood there, her red hair hidden in a mass of soft dough that was beginning to ooze down over her perspiring, laughing face. “I just wanted to show you what a comycal thing happened, Mis’ Hollister,” she began, in her familiar way. “’Twould make a pig laugh, now! I’d begun my bread dough, and put it on a shelf, an’—”
“Oh, get out of here!” Paul yelled at her furiously. “And less noise out of you in the kitchen!”
He slammed the door shut on her retreat, and turned to Lydia with a face she did not recognize. The room grew black before her eyes.