Mrs. Pope sniffed audibly. “Oh, very well, my dear,” she observed. “Have your own way. It’s some satisfaction, at least, to know that you can buy a dress when you feel like it, without having to account to your husband for it. My poor, dear J. B. always gave me a most liberal allowance. I never could dress on less than three thousand a year.”
“Well, mother, you know you did manage to get along on much less, the last few years.”
Mrs. Pope assumed a deeply hurt expression. “Edith,” she exclaimed irritably, “it is most unkind of you to remind me of my temporary poverty. Before my poor, dear J. B. died—”
“Frightfully hot this evening, isn’t it?” Edith interrupted.
The mother glared at her daughter in annoyance. “Where’s Donald?” she suddenly asked.
“In his room, mother.”
“Didn’t he get here on the five-o’clock train?”
“Yes.”
“Then why doesn’t he come downstairs? I hope he bought the afternoon papers.”