"I'm sure," Great-aunt Charlotte Thrift said, quietly. "Families don't always know. About each other, I mean."
"No, indeed," both he and Charley agreed, politely. They were anxious to be off. They were off, with a good-bye to the group in the living room. Charlotte Thrift turned to go upstairs. "Jesse Dick——" she heard, from the room where the others sat. "Dick——" She turned and came back swiftly, and seated herself again in the dim corner. Henry Kemp was speaking, his face all agrin.
"She's a case, that kid. We never know. Some weeks it's the son of one of the professors, with horn glasses and no hat. And then it'll be a millionaire youngster she's met at a dance, and the place will be cluttered up with his Stutz and his orchids and Plow's candy for awhile. Now it's this young Dick."
Ben Gartz waggled his head. "These youngsters!" he remarked, meaninglessly. "These youngsters!"
But Mrs. Carrie Payson spoke with meaning. "Who is he? Dick? I've never heard the name. Who're his folks?"
An uneasy rustle from Belle. "He is a poet," she said. "Quite a good one, too. Some of his stuff is really——"
"Who're his folks?" demanded Mrs. Carrie Payson. "They're not poets too, are they?"
Henry Kemp's big laugh burst out again, then, in spite of Belle's warning rustle. "His father's 'Delicatessen Dick,' over on Fifty-third. We get all our cold cuts there, and the most wonderful pickled herring. They say they're put up in some special way from a recipe that's been in the family for years. Holland Dutch, I guess——"
But Mrs. Carrie Payson had heard enough. "Well, I must say, Belle, you're overdoing this freedom business with Charley. 'Delicatessen Dick!' I suppose the poet sells the herrings over the counter? I suppose he gives you an extra spoonful of onions when you——"
Belle spoke up tartly: "He isn't in the store, mother. His people have loads of money. They're very thrifty and nice respectable people. Of course—everybody in Hyde Park goes to Dick's for their Sunday night supper things."