“My chief of staff; the man who persists in keeping me rich,” Grant elaborated.
“I mustn’t keep you waiting longer. Dinner is ready. Dad, you are to carve.”
“Hanged if I will! I’m a guest here, and I stand on my rights,” Y.D. exploded.
“Then you must do it, Frank.”
“I suppose so,” said Transley, “although all I get out of a meal when I have to carve is splashing and profanity. You know, Squiggs, I’ve figured it out that this practice of requiring the nominal head of the house to carve has come down from the days when there wasn’t usually enough to go ‘round, and the carver had to make some fine decisions and, perhaps, maintain them by force. It has no place under modern civilization.”
“Except that someone must do it, and it’s about the only household responsibility man has not been able to evade,” said Mrs. Transley.
As they entered the dining-room Zen’s mother, whiter and it seemed even more distinguished by the years, joined them, accompanied by Mrs. Squiggs, a thin woman much concerned about social status, and the party was complete.
Transley managed the carving more skilfully than his protest might have suggested, and there was a lull in the conversation while the first demands of appetite were being satisfied.
“Tell us about your settlement scheme, Mr. Grant,” Mrs. Transley urged when it seemed necessary to find a topic. “Mr. Grant has quite a wonderful plan.”
“Yes, wise us up, old man,” said Transley. “I’ve heard something of it, but never could see through it.”