Only once during his visit was Edward’s dramatic sense aroused, and that was when he seemed to hear Mom say to a silent and ghostlike neighbor who had dropped in, “Merry, merry, merry were they, and danced with their hair in a tremble.” After studying the picture thus presented to his mental retina, Edward realised that part of what she had really said was, “It’s worry, worry, worry all day about dancing ...”
That evening, when the energies of a cheap Victrola had been directed to the delivery of a song which one could tell was a comic song about Prohibition because it was sung out of tune and with a great deal of hiccoughing, Miss Weber asked her brother for the loan of his bicycle.
“What’d I loan Ed my wheel for?” asked the frank youth. “He’s not my beau, is he?”
“Why, Cliff, you know you haven’t used it yourself in months. You’re not going to act mean, are you?”
The discussion lasted for about seventy minutes. It ended thus: “Why, what’d I wanter loan Ed my wheel for? He’s not my beau. Mom, here’s Sis’ beau after my wheel. He’d skip with it, as likely as not. It’s my wheel anyway.”
“Well, then, you won’t get any more music off my Victrola. I’ll lock it up, you mean thing. Mom, isn’t brother the mean thing?”
“Lock it up all you want. I can live without music, I guess. I’m not one of your British highbrow lords.”
Unperturbed, Mom read Mother’s Magazine, her square florid face resting on its many chins like a shut door at the top of steps. Mr. Weber picked his teeth with clicking noises and looked at the floor as though he could see through it.
When Edward awoke on Monday morning, Cliff was gone. Miss Weber was knocking on the door. “Brother says you can have his wheel,” she said through the door. “I gotter catch my train in a minute. Come down till I show you where the wheel is.”
Edward felt for a moment sorry that his eyes looked so ugly immediately after he awoke. “It’ll disillusion her, poor soul,” he thought, putting on his overcoat. “Perhaps it’s as well....”