II
THAT evening St. Peter was in the new house, dressing for dinner. His two daughters and their husbands were dining with them, also an English visitor. Mrs. St. Peter heard the shower going as she passed his door. She entered his room and waited until he came out in his bathrobe, rubbing his wet, ink-black hair with a towel.
“Surely you’ll admit that you like having your own bath,” she said, looking past him into the glittering white cubicle, flooded with electric light, which he had just quitted.
“Whoever said I didn’t? But more than anything else, I like my closets. I like having room for all my clothes, without hanging one coat on top of another, and not having to get down on my marrow-bones and fumble in dark corners to find my shoes.”
“Of course you do. And it’s much more dignified, at your age, to have a room of your own.”
“It’s convenient, certainly, though I hope I’m not so old as to be personally repulsive?” He glanced into the mirror and straightened his shoulders as if he were trying on a coat.
Mrs. St. Peter laughed,—a pleasant, easy laugh
—34—
