“Sure she could.” Sounds of a heavy booted iceman coming down the steps of the kitchen porch. “New York papers said she could have her pick; but she come back home.”
Gail’s maid came in, a neat French girl who had an artist’s delight in her. She shivered and closed the windows.
“Arly!”
“Good morning,” came a cheerful voice through three open doors. “I’m up hours,” and Arly trotted in, fresh-eyed and smiling, clad in a rich blue velvet boudoir robe and her black hair braided down her back. “I peeped in a few minutes ago, but you were sound asleep. I want my coffee.”
“You poor infant,” and Gail promptly slid two pink feet out of bed to be slippered by Nanette. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Why didn’t you ring?”
“I did. Aunty Clem was up and took all the burden of living away from me. I wouldn’t have coffee by myself, though. I get that at home,” and there was the slightest trace of wistfulness in her tone.
“Call Clem again,” directed Gail. “Shall we have it in your dressing-room or mine?”
“All over both suites,” laughed Arly. “I shall never have enough of these beautiful little rooms,” and she hurried back to her own quarters, to summons, once more, the broadly smiling face of Aunty Clem.
That was the beginning of the first morning at home, with every delightful observance just as it had used to be; first the fragrant coffee, and the pathetically good hot muffins and jam; then the romping, laughing, splashing process of dressing; then interrupted by a visit from Mrs. Sargent, and from Taffy, and from Vivian Jennings, who lived next door, and from Madge Frazier, who had stayed the night with Vivian; then a race out to the stables, to say good morning to the horses, and laughing with moist eyes, hear their excited whinnies of greeting, and slip them lumps of sugar; then to the kennels to be half smothered by the eager collies; then over to Vivian’s, to surround deaf old grandmother Jennings with the flowers she loved best, the faces of young girls; then back to the house and the telephone, for a cheery good morning to everybody in the world, beginning with Dad, who was already plugging away in his office, the morning half gone, and looking forward to lunch.
Breakfast at eleven, a brisk horseback ride, a change, and Gail’s little grey electric was at the door. There was a tremendous lot of shopping to be done. To begin with, sixteen new hair ribbons, and nine fancy marbles, not the big ones that you can’t use, but the regular unattainable fifteen centers, and twenty-five pears, and twenty-five small boxes of candy, and eleven pound packages of special tea, and six pound packages of special tobacco, and one quart of whiskey, and eighteen bunches of red carnations, five to the bunch, five grouping better than four or six. None of these things were to be delivered. Gail piled them all in her coupé, and, after saying “howdydo” to about everybody on Main Street, and feeling immensely uplifted thereby, she inserted Arly in among the carnations and pears and tobacco and things, and whirled her out to Chickentown, which was the actively devilish section of the city allotted to Gail’s church work.