Mother was in the kitchen; Father at the front door, aimlessly whittling. He looked up, saw the Vance Carter motor approach. He shrugged his shoulders, growled, “Let her go to the dickens.”
Then the car had stopped, and Mrs. Vance Carter and Miss Margaret Carter had incredibly stepped out, had started up the path to the tea-room.
CHAPTER VII
FATHER’S hand kept on aimlessly whittling, while his eyes poked out like those of a harassed fiddler-crab when he saw Mrs. Vance Carter actually stop. It was surely a dream. In his worry over inactivity he had found himself falling into queer little illusions lately. He was conscious that the chauffeur, whom he had bribed to stop some day, was winking at him in a vulgar manner not at all appropriate to his dove-gray uniform. He had a spasm of indignant wonder. “I’ll bet a hat that fellow didn’t have a thing to do with this; he’s a grafter.” Then he sprang up, bowing.
Mrs. Carter rustled up to him and murmured, “May we have some tea, here, and a cake, do you know?”
“Oh yes, ma’am! Won’t you step right in? Fine day, ma’am.”
Mrs. Carter seemed not to have any opinions regarding the day. Quite right, too; it wasn’t an especially fine day; just a day.
She marched in, gave one quick, nervous look, and said, with tremendous politeness: “May we have this table by the window? You have such a charming view over the cliffs.”