“And your grandfather is still alive?” asked May in astonishment. “Why, he was an old man when you left. He must be nearly ninety now.”
“He’s ninety-one and very spry,” said Ellen. “He goes out to walk alone in the city. He hasn’t changed at all.”
“Well, well,” echoed May, and there rose an awkward pause which neither of them seemed able to break. Now that they had gone quickly through the past there seemed to be nothing of which to speak. The sound of the black dog’s howling came distantly into the little parlor. It was Merton, the third child, who saved the situation. May cried, “Merton, how many times have I told you not to touch things. Take your hand right out of that goldfish bowl.... Here, come here now and wipe it on Momma’s handkerchief.”
While this was being done Ellen reflected, a bit grimly, that perhaps it was just as well that she could not lunch with May. If the conversation had grown sterile in half an hour, how could one hope that it could be spread over an hour? Sabine, perhaps, had been right, when she had said once that it was a bad sign when a person had a great many old friends. It meant that such a person had not much capacity for growth.
Here was May unchanged, exactly as she had always been, save that she had now the satisfaction of a husband and was no longer restless and coquettish. Perhaps she had been right when she said so long ago that all May wanted was a man; it did not matter what man.
“There now,” May was saying. “Sit on the chair and don’t swing your feet. You’ll scratch Miss Ogilvie’s furniture.” She turned to Ellen. “Marguerite,” she said, “is now taking lessons from Miss Ogilvie. Maybe some day you’ll be famous too, Marguerite. Maybe you’ll play for the lady. Come now ... that’s a nice girl ... play your new piece, the one called The Jolly Farmer.”
But Marguerite would not stir. She grew arch and hung her head. She threatened to sob. Her mother coaxed and argued and pleaded but nothing happened. Marguerite would have none of The Jolly Farmer. It was Rebecca who saved the situation by coming in.
“My God!” she said, on entering, but the rest of her sentence was lost forever because the sight of May and her offspring silenced her.
“Miss Schönberg,” said Ellen, “this is Mrs. Biggs.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said May, staring at the exotic figure of Rebecca, and then after a strained silence, “I must go now. Baby wants her supper.”