And a gay parley would take place between them.
Here was one invulnerable nucleus; another, three-fold, centered upon Marsden, whose sisters found confession and admiration good, at his indifferent shrine. Rhoda had noticed Marsden intent upon a book that she knew nothing of. But his intentness augured well to a curious impulse in herself. She desired to read a book provocative of such.
“I guess not,” says Marsden.
“Please!”
“Mother would never forgive me, if I let you,” he smiles maliciously.
“Oh—you will—” she pleads, tittering a bit at the point of his cajolery.
“Well, I can’t stop you.”
And Rhoda, titillated strangely by her prospect, jumps half out of her seat to embrace her brother.
“Here,” cries father, looking up in mock anger from his colloquy with Jonas. “Back in your place there! Mother’ll be here.”
And as if with one accord, a faint, vague sneer,—a parting of lips, a twinkle of eyes—steals over the entire company. Quincy alone is excepted. He does not understand. But again there presses upon him the sense of a piteous discord crying against life’s rhythm. Jonas tells an amusing incident from school. Father laughs broadly; Marsden laughs to the best of his ability, his flavor of acid for the nonce repressed; Rhoda laughs, feeling the fellowship of Marsden, and Adelaide giggles, following the lead of Rhoda. And then, the door opens and mother re-appears with the stew. It is as if a hushing pall had fallen. Quincy does not understand—once more. But the dinner nears completion.