But by evening she felt indefinably let down. It was a warm June night and the windows were open in the dining-room so that as they sat at dinner Horatia could see the city below, its lights just beginning to sparkle through the first dusk, and the slow freighters on the great lake beyond passing and repassing with grave dignity. It was all beautiful and quiet and familiar outside and yet no one at the table seemed to feel it except herself. Uncle George at the head of the table in his black house-jacket, ate silently, his broad, unemotional face fallen into heavy lines of contentment. The day was over, his day’s business had been good and after dinner he would water the lawn.
At the other end of the table his wife was talking to the girls about Maud’s coming wedding. And as usual her mind was focused on the food, the napkins and silver and especially the cleaning necessary, and Horatia once more suffered the feeling of reluctant chill of the old days when her aunt proposed a children’s party. Thank God this one would be the last.
Her aunt broke into her thought.
“And then I suppose Horatia will be the next one,” she said with a heavy facetiousness.
“Didn’t you meet any fellows at the ‘U’?” asked Maud. “Most of the girls come back simply laden with pictures. Esther Dinsmore has a man who motors up to see her every week or so—clear across the state.”
“I didn’t go in for that sort of thing.” There was a trace of self-righteousness mingled with the humor in Horatia’s tone. “And I am afraid I won’t be the next one, Aunt Caroline, because I don’t want to get married for ages. I’ve lots of things to do first.”
“Teaching?” asked Maud in disgust.
“No—I don’t think so. Social work, maybe.”
“Slum work?” It was Aunt Caroline this time.
“We don’t call it that any longer.” Horatia was patient. “No—— Lots of the social work is scientific work in an office. Collecting statistics.”