"Beck! She hasn't! She didn't! Beck Schaefer!"
"No mama, she hasn't. Henry just thinks she will—in time."
Mrs. Payson turned on the overhead electric lights (they had been sitting in the soothing twilight of the lamps), signified that Charley was to hand her the evening paper that lay at the side of Henry's chair, and seated herself in an ancient rocker—the only rocker the house contained. It squeaked. She rocked. Glaring lights, rustling paper, squeaking chair. The comfort of the room, of the group, was dispelled.
"I'd like to know why!" demanded Mrs. Payson, turning to the stock market page. "A good family. Money. And Beck Schaefer's a fine looking girl."
One thought flashed through the minds of all of them. The others looked at Lottie and left the thought unspoken. Lottie herself put it into words then. Bluntly: "She isn't a girl, mother. She's thirty-five."
"Thirty-five's just a nice age." The paper crackled as she passed to the real estate transfers. "If this keeps on I'd like to know what they're going to do about building. Material's so high now it's prohibitive." More rustling of paper and squeaking of chair. "Beck Schaefer's got her mother to look out for her."
"That's why," said Aunt Charlotte, suddenly. Lottie looked at her, knitting needles poised a moment.
"Why what?" asked Mrs. Payson. Then, as her sister Charlotte did not answer, "You don't even know what we're talking about, Charlotte. Sit there in the corner half asleep."
"It's you who're asleep," snapped great-aunt Charlotte tartly. "With your eyes wide open."
When the doorbell rang then, opportunely, they all sighed a little, whether in relief or disappointment.