“Somethin for the misses sir.”
“Bring it here.... Hickson’s ... and what does she want to be buying more dresses for will you tell me that.... Hickson’s.... Open it up. If it looks expensive I’ll send it back.”
The maid gingerly pulled off a layer of tissuepaper, uncovering a peach and peagreen evening dress.
Mr. Densch got to his feet spluttering, “She must think the war’s still on.... Tell em we will not receive it. Tell em there’s no such party livin here.”
The maid picked up the box with a toss of the head and went out with her nose in the air. Mr. Densch sat down in the little chair and began looking over the telegrams again.
“Ann-ee, Ann-ee,” came a shrill voice from the inner room; this was followed by a head in a lace cap shaped like a libertycap and a big body in a shapeless ruffled negligée. “Why J. D. what are you doing here at this time of the morning? I’m waiting for my hairdresser.”
“It’s very important.... I just had a cable from Heintz. Serena my dear, Blackhead and Densch is in a very bad way on both sides of the water.”
“Yes ma’am,” came the maid’s voice from behind him.
He gave his shoulders a shrug and walked to the window. He felt tired and sick and heavy with flesh. An errand boy on a bicycle passed along the street; he was laughing and his cheeks were pink. Densch saw himself, felt himself for a second hot and slender running bareheaded down Pine Street years ago catching the girls’ ankles in the corner of his eye. He turned back into the room. The maid had gone.
“Serena,” he began, “cant you understand the seriousness...? It’s this slump. And on top of it all the bean market has gone to hell. It’s ruin I tell you....”