“They’re unaccountable short wud leave,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Steve couldn’t git more’n three days to git married in.”
“But reckon he’ll git some more later, woan’t he, Nell?”
Nell started—during the little womanly talk her mind had gone off on questionings of its own.
“Leave? Yes. He’s sure to get a week before he goes out to France.”
“You’re unaccountable lucky. Reckon he’ll taake you to another hotel and buy you another hat.”
“And send you home in another cab.”
“I’ll go up and have a look at father,” said Nell.
There was silence in the kitchen for a little while after she went. Harry and Zacky had gone back to their digging, and Ivy and Mrs. Beatup sat squatting against Thyrza’s lap, where the baby lay more helpless than a day-old kitten.
“Nell’s middling quiet,” said her mother at last.
“She’s sad at having said good-bye to Steve,” sighed Thyrza.