He was slowly recognized as being “in society.” To tell the truth, most of Lipsittsville was in society, but a few citizens weren’t—Barney Bachschluss, the saloon-keeper; Tony, who sawed wood and mowed lawns; the workmen on the brick-yard and on the railway. Father was serenely established upon a social plane infinitely loftier than theirs.
He wore a giddy, spotted, bat-wing tie, and his grand good gray trousers were rigidly creased. He read editorials in the Indianapolis paper and discussed them with Doc Schergan at the drug-store.
The only trouble was that Mother had nothing to do. She was discontented, in their two rooms at the Star Hotel. No longer could she, as in her long years of flat life in New York, be content to sit dreaming and reading the paper. She was as brisk and strong and effective as Father. Open woods and the windy road had given her a restless joy in energy. She made a gown of gray silk and joined the Chautauqua Circle, but that was not enough.
On an evening of late August, when a breeze was in the maples, when the sunset was turquoise and citron green and the streets were serenely happy, Father took her out for a walk. They passed the banker’s mansion, with its big curving screened porch, and its tower, and brought up at a row of modern bungalows which had just been completed.
“I wanted you to see these,” said Father, “because some time—this is a secret I been keeping—some time I guess we’ll be able to rent one of these! Don’t see why we can’t early next year, the way things are going!”
“Oh, Father!” she said, almost tearfully.
“Would you like it?”
“Like it! With a real house and something to keep my hands busy! And maybe a kitty! And I would make you tea (I’m so tired of hotel food!) and we would sit out here on the porch—”
“Yes, you’d have old Mr. Seth Appleby for tea-room customer. He’s better ’n anybody they got on Cape Cod!”