“Why don’t they have a hall boy?” demanded her mother, glaring at Edith as though it were her daughter’s particular fault that this service was lacking.
“I suppose it’s on account of the expense.”
“Humph! That’s one of the joys of living in such cheap apartments. When I lived at the Bolingbroke Arms—”
“Please, mother, don’t tell us about it again,” exclaimed Alice impatiently. The story of her mother’s former grandeur was an oft told tale in the family.
“Alice, you are impertinent.” Her mother’s tone was deeply aggrieved. “Before your dear father died, we had everything heart could wish. It is not strange that I find myself unable to get accustomed to Harlem flats.” She turned to Edith, who had taken up her sewing. “Edith, where’s your husband?”
“He went out to post some letters, mother. He’ll be back presently.”
Mrs. Pope glared about the room with an impatient snort. “Huh!” she exclaimed. “I don’t wish to make unkind remarks about Donald behind his back, but, when I consented to your marriage, I certainly never expected to see you come to this. I’ve just come from the Harrisons’. They have taken an apartment in the St. George. You ought to see it, Edith. Persian rugs all over the place, real-lace curtains, Circassian-walnut furniture in the dining-room, cold-storage ice-box, vacuum cleaner free every week. It’s perfect, and only two thousand a year. I couldn’t help thinking that that was the kind of a home I hoped to see my daughter in, instead of a fifty-dollar-a-month tenement.” She sank heavily into a chair, and emitted a windy sigh.
Alice threw down the magazine which she had been looking over and laughed. “Well, mother, you may see it yet, you know. I’m still in the running.”
“Not unless you give up your ridiculous idea of marrying that young Emerson Hall, and pick out a man with some money. He need not be a millionaire, but he at least ought to be able to keep you in the style to which you have always been accustomed.”