"Yes, Mrs. Winters. Nothing particularly happened, that is--but they like
my work."
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Winters croons at her, she is being motherly. The effect
produced is rather that of a sudden assumption of life and vicarious
motherhood on the part of a small, brightly-painted porcelain hen.
"Then they will be sending you over shortly, no doubt? Across the wide
wide sea--" adds Mrs. Winters archly, but Nancy is too tired-looking to
respond to the fancy.
"I suppose they will when they get ready," she answers briefly and returns
to her chicken-croquette with the thought that in its sleekness,
genteelness, crumblingness, and generally unnourishing qualities it is
really rather like Mrs. Winters. An immense desire, after two weeks of
Mrs. Winters' mental and physical cuisine for something as hearty and
gross as the mere sight of a double planked steak possesses her achingly--
but Mrs. Winters was told once that she "ate like a bird."
"Well, in that case, dear Nancy, you certainly must not leave New York
indefinitely without making the most of your opportunities," Mrs.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163