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.
Everything was correct: knife and fork, spoon, cruet, all perfectly clean, the crockery fine, the bread and butter thin—in fact, it was just as it would have been for a perfect stranger. This scrupulous neatness, in a household so slovenly and easygoing, where it was an established tradition that something should be forgotten or wrong, impressed Siegmund. Beatrice put the serving knife and fork by the little dish of ham, saw that all was proper, then went and sat down. Her face showed no emotion; it was calm and proud. She began to sew.
“What do you say, mother?” said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. “Shall it be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?”
“I say, as I said before,” replied Beatrice: “I cannot afford to go out.”
“But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. Dîtes donc!”
“There are other things to think of,” said Beatrice.
“Now, maman, nous avons changé tout cela! We are going out—a jolly little razzle!” Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and smiled at her mother gaily.
“I am afraid there will be no razzle”—Beatrice
