Tom was down before the children. He opened the front door for the newspaper which Delia always forgot to bring in and came toward the table with his brows drawn. It was not a propitious moment, but the thing had to be done.
“Tom.”
“Darned if they haven’t given that murderer another reprieve! How do they ever expect to have....”
“Listen, Tom! There’s something I want to ask you.”
“A pretty kind of justice! Wrap all the little murderers up in pink wool blankets for fear they get cold in the neck, and forget the poor cuss that’s been killed! You know, Alice, what ought to be done is this....”
“Yes, but Tom, listen. I’ll simply have to have a little more money.” (It was dreadful to have to ask him now when he was all stirred up over this thing in the paper!) “I’ll just have to do some more shopping, just a few little things I forgot, and I’d rather be free to go about instead of sticking to the charge accounts. If you could give me....”
Tom was suddenly all attention. His dark eyes were looking at her keenly. He broke in.
“Why I gave you an extra twenty-five last Friday.”
“I know, Tom, but it took every cent of it for the cards. And even then I had to spend most of the day trying to find respectable ones within my price.” Tom’s face looked thunderous.
“Do you mean to tell me that it takes twenty-five dollars now to send out Christmas cards? Twenty-five dollars! Why, Good Heavens, that would buy two tons of coal. That’s the sheerest piece of criminal waste I ever heard of!”