Lottie Payson was knitting a sleeveless, olive-drab sweater. Row after row, inch after inch, it grew and lengthened, a flawless thing. Lottie hated knitting. As she bent over the work her face wore a look for definition of which you were baffled. Not a sullen look nor brooding, but bound. That was it! Not free.
The talk at first was casual, uninteresting.
"Lot, is that the skirt to the suit Heller made you last winter?... His things are as good the second season as they are the first. Keep their shape. And he certainly does know how to get a sleeve in. His shoulder line...."
"... the minute I begin to gain I can tell by my waistbands——"
"... if you purl three knit two——"
Beck Schaefer had ceased to knit. She was looking at the intent little group. She represented a certain thwarted type of unwed woman in whom the sensual is expressed, pitifully enough, in terms of silk and lacy lingerie; in innuendo; in a hungry roving eye; in a little droop at the corners of the mouth; in an over-generous display of plump arms, or bosom, or even knees. Beck's married friends often took her with them in the evenings as a welcome third to relieve the tedium of a wedded tête-à-tête. They found a vicarious pleasure in giving Beck a good time.
Suddenly, in the midst of the brittle chatter and laughter, was thrust the steel edge of Beck Schaefer's insolent voice, high, shrill.
"Well, Cele, tell us the truth: are you happy?"
The bride, startled, dropped a stitch, looked up, looked down, flushed. "Why yes, of course, you bad thing!"
"Ye-e-es, but I mean really happy. Come on now, give us the truth. Come on. Let's all tell the truth, for once. Are you really happy, Cele?"