But Mrs. Horton was on the high tide of her big day and Fliss did not greatly disturb her. “Oh, she meant all right. You mustn’t mind what old friends say. Well, here’s your father.”
Mr. Horton came slowly into the kitchen and smiled at Ellen.
“Quite a party, eh?”
“And your supper will be late,” said Ellen, “but it won’t be long now.”
It was equally surprising to the three Hortons to have supper at all, but Ellen cleared her kitchen of them—Mrs. Horton to change her garb, Fliss to finish the red dress and Mr. Horton to read his paper while she prepared the meal. Half an hour later they all sat down to supper as if there had been no party—no left-over sandwiches, but hot rolls and meat and coffee. It was curious to see how they all reacted to it, and as they became better fed became also more definite personalities. Mrs. Horton insisted on doing the fresh batch of dishes, her husband became actually talkative on the subject of the railroad strike, even though no one listened, and the sharp edge of Fliss’s manner softened perceptibly.
Ellen did not notice or reflect on what she had done. It was all of a normal day’s work for her. But she kissed Fliss as she left and there was a trace of pity in her eyes. Going back through the city, she stopped at the gay windows to look at clothes displayed there that were pretty like Fliss herself—gay like Fliss. As she looked, she sighed. But when she approached the house of her employer her face took on a look of satisfaction. There were lights in the living-room. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison were back from their theater party, and as she went past the long windows Ellen saw them—Cecily curled up in a big chair, her evening coat thrown back, and Dick sitting on the arm of the chair fondling his wife’s hair. It was a pretty picture—and pleasantly real. Ellen wound her alarm clock and set her bread with great satisfaction. She loved the convenient, pretty kitchen. As she mounted the back stairs quietly, the lights in the living-room still burned.
“Did you have an awfully good time to-night?” Cecily was asking.
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes, except I’m always glad to get home. It doesn’t seem as if we had much chance to be home these days.”
“No—three nights this week—and to-morrow night, I meant to tell you. I told Mollie Heathcote that I was sure we could join them at the Palladium.”