When she returned to the attack, he was still obstinately fearful to antagonize the maids. “Servants are not servants in California!” He led the way to the drummers’ room, where she had an inspiration.
“Let me have this room, Mr. Patton,” she urged. “It will be so much cozier, and we can move the piano in, and have music without it being so public as it is in the hall.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hardin, I’d like to accommodate you, but there’s always drummers coming in here. There’s sure to be one or more on that six o’clock train. It’s right after supper they spread their samples.”
“Then they’d ruin my table!” cried Gerty.
“Oh, no, I’ll give them another table, Mrs. Hardin,” protested Patton. “It’s the best I can do. I can’t afford to lose their custom. You see, they pass it about, from one place to the other, and if anything they don’t like happens, the first thing your custom has fallen off.”
Haughtily, Gerty had to succumb. She found her next block when she wished to bank the willow greens in the dining-room. It lacked a few minutes to twelve. The doors of the dining-room would be thrown open to the patrons of the hotel; she compromised on vases. They brought her a few small affairs which refused to stand when filled with the top-heavy branches.
“I’ve got some crockery jugs in the kitchen,” Patton volunteered. “I’ll have them washed and sent in to you.”
“And I’m waiting for the cloth, Mr. Patton. None of mine was long enough.”
Patton confessed that his were too short for the long drummers’ table, but she could use two. No one would ever see where they doubled in the center.
“Oh, very well,” cried Gerty Hardin. Her nerves were on edge with the delay. She busied herself with unpacking her bundles, listening for the sound of Mrs. Youngberg’s buggy wheels. The table was fully set, the candle-shades placed, the name-cards adjusted, even the willows arranged as best she could in the gray crockery jugs before Mrs. Youngberg returned.