“And yet, Sebastian’s father has a right to be present, hasn’t he? Even if it makes extra trouble.” Mrs. Baker hovered uncertainly; the rich Ned Levi, she knew, was a widower; Mr. Baker had been in his grave since fourteen years.
“What I’m most afraid of,” Mrs. Johnson confessed, “is that he’ll feel bound to ask us back to one of his religious festivals,—that funny one where the Jews go up on the roof and eat pineapple.”
“Dear things,” murmured Mrs. Baker.
“I approve highly of all these picturesque customs,” explained the other lady, painstakingly. “But not for myself. Pineapple in large quantities disagrees with me. Especially the tinned kind. And I believe they have to sit cross-legged.”
Then Mrs. Baker, who on questions of etiquette was really invaluable, suggested the brilliant compromise that Mr. Levi, senior, should be invited to dine at Town House on Boxing Day.—“Or on the day after Boxing Day, to make it quite safe.”
“That wouldn’t be Christmas, really Christmas, at all any more, would it?” Considerably easier in her mind, now that the vexed question was settled, Mrs. Johnson returned home again; having first arranged that on the occasion of Mr. Levi’s visit, Mrs. Baker should “just drop in,” and aid in his entertainment, on the strength of her experience at Laura Silberstein’s wedding.
Letty stopped in front of a giant notice-board, which signified: “To Be Let Or Sold.”
“Want to shee inside dat house,” she announced, in coaxing baby language. “Oo, please, Sebastian, want to shee inside.” She tugged imperiously at his hand.
Behind the murky strip of garden, black windows glimmered faintly in a spectral building.