'This is all my doin', dad,' said she comfortably, as she and her flock entered the dining-room. 'Put the soup on, Alma. I’m the one that was goin' to be prompt at dinner, too!' she added, with a superintending glance for all the children, as she tied on little John’s napkin.
F. X. Costello, Senior, undertaker by profession, and mayor by an immense majority, was already at the head of the table.
'Late, eh, mommie?' said he, good-naturedly.
He threw his newspaper on the floor, cast a householder’s critical glance at the lights and the fire, and pushed his neatly placed knives and forks to right and left carelessly with both his fat hands.
The room was brilliantly lighted and warm. A great fire roared in the old-fashioned black-marble grate, and electric lights blazed everywhere. Everything in the room, and in the house, was costly, comfortable, incongruous, and hideous. The Costellos were very rich, and had been very poor; and certain people were fond of telling of the queer, ridiculous things they did, in trying to spend their money. But they were very happy, and thought their immense, ugly house was the finest in the city, or in the world.
'Well, an’ what’s the news on the Rialter?' said the head of the house, busy with his soup.
'You’ll have the laugh on me, dad,' his wife assured him placidly. 'After all my sayin' that nothing’d take me to Father Crowley’s meetin'!'
'Oh, that was it?' said the mayor. 'What’s he goin' to have—a concert?'
'—And a fair, too!' supplemented Mrs. Costello. There was an interval devoted on her part to various bibs and trays, and a low aside to the waitress. Then she went on: 'As you know, I went, meanin' to beg off. On account of baby bein' so little, and Leo’s cough, and the paperers bein' upstairs—and all! I thought I’d just make a donation, and let it go at that. But the ladies all kind of hung back—there was very few there—and I got talkin'—'
'Well, 't is but our dooty, after all,' said the mayor, nodding approval.