Most virtuously, most ministerially: “Oh, of course.”
They all sat, after supper, in the sitting-room. The Bainses prided themselves on having advanced so far socially that they did not spend their evenings in the kitchen-dining-room—always. The sitting-room had the homeliness of a New England farm-house, with hectically striped rag carpet, an amazing patent rocker with Corinthian knobs and brass dragon’s feet, crayon enlargements, a table piled with Farm and Fireside and Modern Priscilla, and the enormous volume of pictures of the Chicago World’s Fair. There was no fireplace, but the stove was a cheery monster of nickel and mica, with a jolly brass crown more golden than gold, and around the glaring belly a chain of glass sapphires, glass emeralds, and hot glass rubies.
Beside the stove’s gorgeous cheerfulness, Elmer turned on his spiritual faucet and worked at being charming.
“Now don’t you folks dare say one word about church affairs this evening! I’m not going to be a preacher—I’m just going to be a youngster and kick up my heels in the pasture, after that lovely supper, and I declare to goodness if I didn’t know she was a strict Mother in Zion, I’d make Mother Bains dance with me—bet she could shake as pretty a pair of heels as any of these art dancers in the theater!”
And encircling that squashy and billowing waist, he thrice whirled her round, while she blushed, and giggled, “Why, the very idee!” The others applauded with unsparing plow-hardened hands, cracking the shy ears of Frank Shallard.
Always Frank had been known as an uncommonly amiable youth, but tonight he was sour as alum.
It was Elmer who told them stories of the pioneer Kansas he knew so well, from reading. It was Elmer who started them popping corn in the parlor-stove after their first uneasiness at being human in the presence of Men of God. During this festivity, when even the most decorous deacon chuckled and admonished Mr. Bains, “Hey, who you shovin’ there, Barney?” Elmer was able to evade publicity and make his rendezvous with Lulu.
More jolly than ever, then, and slightly shiny from buttered pop-corn, he herded them to the parlor-organ, on which Lulu operated with innocent glee and not much knowledge. Out of duty to the cloth, they had to begin with singing “Blessed Assurance,” but presently he had them basking in “Seeing Nelly Home,” and “Old Black Joe.”
All the while he was quivering with the promise of soft adventure to come.
It only added to his rapture that the young neighboring farmer, Floyd Naylor—kin of the Bains family, a tall young man but awkward—was also mooning at Lulu, longing but shy.