held her dresses in neat array. Her hats and shoes stood on the shelf above. There was no sign of Eddie there except a pair of discarded shoes which he hadn't yet accustomed himself to the idea of throwing out. A cretonne-covered box on the floor was where Dot kept her more intimate garments. She had no bureau, chiffonier, or chest of drawers. Instead she had what Mrs. Williams had suggested Eddie should give her in honor of their first home, a vanity table, a frail, mahogany-stained, trimirrored vanity table with two shallow little drawers and knots of forget-me-nots painted helter-skelter with fine disregard of balance. It was Dot's pride and joy.
Sometimes when her work was all done, she'd go whisking about the apartment, patting the white spread, smiling at the kitchen table, and admiring her blue voile curtains. Even the bathroom with its sparkling white tub and perfectly workmanlike shower bath came in for its share of praise.
Dot would stand on the little blue bath mat and study the gleaming white tiles surrounding it. And sometimes she would suddenly burst into song, and other times she felt as though she'd just like to cry.
