Claire nodded. She felt shyer before these solemnly staring traveling
men than she ever had in a box at the opera. At the double door of the
dining-room, from which the cabbage smell steamed with a lustiness
undiminished by the sad passing of its youth, a man, one of the
average-sized, average-mustached, average business-suited,
average-brown-haired men who can never be remembered, stopped the
Boltwoods and hawed, "Saw you coming into town. You've got a New York
license?"
She couldn't deny it.
"Quite a ways from home, aren't you?"
She had to admit it.
She was escorted by a bouncing, black-eyed waitress to a table for four.
The next table was a long one, at which seven traveling men, or local
business men whose wives were at the lake for the summer, ceased trying
to get nourishment out of the food, and gawped at her. Before the
Boltwoods were seated, the waitress dabbed at non-existent spots on
their napkins, ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of Claire's
plate, made motions at a cup and a formerly plated fork, and bubbled,
"Autoing through?"
Claire fumbled for her chair, oozed into it, and breathed, "Yes."
"Going far?"
"Yes."
"Where do you live?"
"New York."
"My! You're quite a ways from home, aren't you?"
"Apparently."
"Hamnegs roasbeef roaspork thapplesauce frypickerel springlamintsauce."
"I--I beg your pardon."
The waitress repeated.
"I--oh--oh, bring us ham and eggs. Is that all right, father?"
"Oh--no--well----"
"You wanted same?" the waitress inquired of Mr. Boltwood.
He was intimidated. He said, "If you please," and feebly pawed at a
fork.
The waitress was instantly back with soup, and a collection of china
gathered by a man of much travel, catholic interests, and no taste. One
of the plates alleged itself to belong to a hotel in Omaha. She pushed
a pitcher of condensed milk to the exact spot where it would catch Mr.
Boltwood's sleeve, brushed the crumb from in front of Claire to a
shelter beneath the pink and warty sugar bowl, recovered a toothpick
which had been concealed behind her glowing lips, picked for a while,
gave it up, put her hands on her hips, and addressed Claire: "How far you going?"
"To Seattle."
"Got any folks there?"
"Any---- Oh, yes, I suppose so."
"Going to stay there long?"
"Really---- We haven't decided."
"Come from New York, eh? Quite a ways from home, all right. Father in
business there?"
"Yes."
"What's his line?"
"I beg pardon?"
"What's his line? Ouch! Jiminy, these shoes pinch my feet. I used to
could dance all night, but I'm getting fat, I guess, ha! ha! Put on
seven pounds last month. Ouch! Gee, they certainly do pinch my toes.
What business you say your father's in?"
"I didn't say, but---- Oh, railroad."