Siegmund put on his slipper, and began to unlace the other boot. The

slurring of the lace through the holes and the snacking of the tag

seemed unnecessarily loud. It annoyed his wife. She took a breath to

speak, then refrained, feeling suddenly her daughter's scornful

restraint upon her. Siegmund rested his arms upon his knees, and sat

leaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace, which was littered

with paper, and orange-peel, and a banana-skin.

'Do you want any supper?' asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of

her voice startled him into looking at her.

She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund's heart went

down with weariness and despair at the sight of her.

'Aren't _you_ having any?' he asked.

The table was not laid. Beatrice's work-basket, a little wicker

fruit-skep, overflowed scissors, and pins, and scraps of holland, and

reels of cotton on the green serge cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows on

the table.

Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took out

a table-cloth, pushing her sewing litter aside, and spread the cloth

over one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knock

with her hand.

'Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, Mother?'

she asked.

'In where?' In this month's _Nash's_.' 'No,' replied Beatrice. 'What time have I for reading, much less for

anything else?' 'You should think more of yourself, and a little less of other people,

then,' said Vera, with a sneer at the 'other people'. She rose. 'Let me

do this. You sit down; you are tired, Mother,' she said.

Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed

her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his

thin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms on

his knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking of

crockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heard

chatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fond

tones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail to

her. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity.

Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put down a cup of coffee, a

plate with boiled ham, pink and thin, such as is bought from a grocer,

and some bread-and-butter. Then she sat down, noisily turning over the

leaves of her magazine. Frank glanced at the table; it was laid solely

for his father. He looked at the bread and the meat, but restrained

himself, and went on reading, or pretended to do so. Beatrice came in

with the small cruet; it was conspicuously bright.




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