CHAPTER XXIX
Mayor Poundstone and his wife arrived at the Pennington home in Redwood Boulevard at six forty-five Thursday evening. It was with a profound feeling of relief that His Honour lifted the lady from their modest little “flivver,” for once inside the Pennington house, he felt, he would be free from a peculiarly devilish brand of persecution inaugurated by his wife about three months previously. Mrs. Poundstone wanted a new automobile. And she had entered upon a campaign of nagging and complaint; hoping to wear Poundstone's resistance down to the point where he would be willing to barter his hope of salvation in return for a guarantee of peace on earth.
“I feel like a perfect fool, calling upon these people in this filthy little rattletrap,” Mrs. Poundstone protested as they passed up the cement walk toward the Pennington portal.
Mayor Poundstone paused. Had he been Medusa, the glance he bent upon his spouse would have transformed her instantly into a not particularly symmetrical statue of concrete. He had reached the breaking-point.
“In pity's name, woman,” he growled, “talk about something else. Give me one night of peace. Let me enjoy my dinner and this visit.”
“I can't help it,” Mrs. P. retorted with asperity. She pointed to Shirley Sumner's car parked under the porte-cochere. “If I had a sedan like that, I could die happy. And it only cost thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I paid six hundred and fifty for the rattletrap, and I couldn't afford that,” he almost whimpered. “You were happy with it until I was elected mayor.”
“You forget our social position, my dear,” she purred sweetly.
He could have struck her. “Hang your social position,” he gritted savagely. “Shut up, will you? Social position in a sawmill town! Rats!”