“I can’t very well come home by myself, can I? I’ve got to stay until things are over whether I like it or not. There’s no limousine waiting my orders every night.”
Her mother did not take up the point. She moved heavily about the room, picking up the strewn finery of the night before, settling things into a kind of order.
“Would you like a cup of coffee in bed? I can heat it up in a minute.”
Fliss yawned. “No, I’ll get up. I’d sooner eat anywhere than in this room. I should think father could make that landlord decorate these rooms. They’re like a slum.”
“They won’t do a thing for you. Rents are terrible and they just tell you to take them or leave them. Mrs. Nesbit is looking for a flat and she said——”
“I can repeat what she said without hearing it,” interrupted Fliss, not without a glint of humor. “Come have some coffee with me, mother.” She had an occasional lazy affection for her mother when she was not too much irritated by her. Also she was company when there was no one else.
Mrs. Horton poured the coffee and set it on the edge of the near-mahogany dining table, while Fliss hung languidly over the gas stove making toast. She was an untidy little figure now—negligee trailing, hair straggling, but her eyes, deep and soft from sleep, made up for the rest of her unattractiveness. They sat down and emptied the coffee-pot, cup after cup, a kind of lazy planlessness about them which was characteristic of their usual mornings. But Mrs. Horton roused herself into attempted action sooner than she usually did.
“I suppose you’ve forgotten, haven’t you, that the bridge club meets here to-day, Fliss?”
“Lord, mother, not those terrible women again!”
“Don’t talk so, Fliss. They’re all nice women. Just as good as we are.”