“Never mind about your shoes,” he repeated a little impatiently. “Just brush your hair.”
“But mother told us—” said Renie, and he saw her lip tremble.
“All right!” he said hastily. “Sit down!”
He knelt down and unbuttoned the shiny pumps, while Martha, with a brisk, competent air, opened their small suitcase and brought out two pairs of cracked old pumps.
They went off hand in hand to the bathroom, and came back damp and rosy.
“Now!” he said, hoping that the sight of the dinner table would arouse them to some expression of delight.
It had seemed to him a matter of great importance that his daughters should learn to like a well appointed table, to appreciate a charming and orderly environment, and he had done his best here. A damask cloth and gleaming silver, a centerpiece of roses, and before each child a silver knife, fork, and spoon, monogrammed, and, to charm them, a little china basket filled with pink and white sweets.
“This is the way things ought to be,” he wanted to tell them. “This is the way you ought to live. This is what I longed for, all through those years of carelessness and disorder!”
But he could not say that. He must not even hint at any disapproval of their mother’s régime. That would be an inexcusable treachery.
He felt certain that Katherine had never belittled him to them. He could trust her for that. There was nothing petty about Katherine.