"Hah—that's the stuff! Don't spill!"
He jammed the newspaper between his and the chair back, shoving in closer to the table. He was blond to ashiness, so that the slicked-back hair might or might not be graying. Pink-shaved, unlined, nose-glasses polished to sparkle, he was ten years his wife's senior and looked those ten years younger. Clerks and clergymen somehow maintain that youth of the flesh, as if life had preserved them in alcohol or shaving-lotion. Mrs. Ross entered then in her crisp but faded house dress, her round, intent face still moistly pink, two steaming dishes held out.
He did not rise, but reached up to kiss her as she passed.
"Burnt your soup a little to-night, mother."
She sat down opposite, breathing deeply outward, spreading her napkin out across her lap.
"It was Edwin coming in from school and getting me worked up with his talk about—about—"
"What?"
"Nothing. Edwin, run out and bring papa the paprika to take the burnt taste out. I turned all the cuffs on your shirts to-day, Harry."
"Lordy! if you ain't fixing at one thing, you're fixing another."
"Anything new?"