The Turmoil - Booth Tarkington (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📗

door!” The voice was vulgar, the words were vulgar⁠—and the plain truth was vulgar! How it rang in Mary Vertrees’s ears! The clear mirror had caught its own image clearly in the flawed one at last.

Sibyl put forth her best bid to clench the matter. She offered her bargain. “Now don’t you worry,” she said, sunnily, “about this setting Edith against you. She’ll get over it after a while, anyway, but if she tried to be spiteful and make it uncomfortable for you when you drop in over there, or managed so as to sort of leave you out, why, I’ve got a house, and Jim likes to come there. I don’t think Edith would be that way; she’s too crazy to have you take her around with the smart crowd, but if she did, you needn’t worry. And another thing⁠—I guess you won’t mind Jim’s own sister-in-law speaking of it. Of course, I don’t know just how matters stand between you and Jim, but Jim and Roscoe are about as much alike as two brothers can be, and Roscoe was very slow making up his mind; sometimes I used to think he actually never would. Now, what I mean is, sisters-in-law can do lots of things to help matters on like that. There’s lots of little things can be said, and lots⁠—”

She stopped, puzzled. Mary Vertrees had gone from pale to scarlet, and now, still scarlet indeed, she rose, without a word of explanation, or any other kind of word, and walked slowly to the open door and out of the room.

Sibyl was a little taken aback. She supposed Mary had remembered something neglected and necessary for the instruction of a servant, and that she would return in a moment; but it was rather a rude excess of absentmindedness not to have excused herself, especially as her guest was talking. And, Mary’s return being delayed, Sibyl found time to think this unprefaced exit odder and ruder than she had first considered it. There might have been more excuse for it, she thought, had she been speaking of matters less important⁠—offering to do the girl all the kindness in her power, too!

Sibyl yawned and swung her muff impatiently; she examined the sole of her shoe; she decided on a new shape of heel; she made an inventory of the furniture of the room, of the rugs, of the wallpaper and engravings. Then she looked at her watch and frowned; went to a window and stood looking out upon the brown lawn, then came back to the chair she had abandoned, and sat again. There was no sound in the house.

A strange expression began imperceptibly to alter the planes of her face, and slowly she grew as scarlet as Mary⁠—scarlet to the ears. She looked at her watch again⁠—and twenty-five minutes had elapsed since she had looked at it before.

She went into the hall, glanced over her shoulder oddly; then she let herself softly out of the front door, and went across the street to her own house.

Roscoe met her upon the threshold, gloomily. “Saw you from the window,” he explained. “You must find a lot to say to that old lady.”

“What old lady?”

“Mrs. Vertrees. I been waiting for you a long time, and I saw the daughter come out, fifteen minutes ago, and post a letter, and then walk on up the street. Don’t stand out on the porch,” he said, crossly. “Come in here. There’s something it’s come time I’ll have to talk to you about. Come in!”

But as she was moving to obey he glanced across at his father’s house and started. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun, staring fixedly. “Something’s the matter over there,” he muttered, and then, more loudly, as alarm came into his voice, he said, “What’s the matter over there?”

Bibbs dashed out of the gate in an automobile set at its highest speed, and as he saw Roscoe he made a gesture singularly eloquent of calamity, and was lost at once in a cloud of dust down the street. Edith had followed part of the way down the drive, and it could be seen that she was crying bitterly. She lifted both arms to Roscoe, summoning him.

“By George!” gasped Roscoe. “I believe somebody’s dead!”

And he started for the New House at a run.

XI

Sheridan had decided to conclude his day’s work early that afternoon, and at about two o’clock he left his office with a man of affairs from foreign parts, who had traveled far for a business conference with Sheridan and his colleagues. Herr Favre, in spite of his French name, was a gentleman of Bavaria. It was his first visit to our country, and Sheridan took pleasure in showing him the sights of the country’s finest city. They got into an open car at the main entrance of the Sheridan Building, and were driven first, slowly and momentously, through the wholesale district and the retail district; then more rapidly they inspected the packinghouses and the stockyards; then skirmished over the “park system” and “boulevards”; and after that whizzed through the “residence section” on their way to the factories and foundries.

“All cray,” observed Herr Favre, smilingly.

“ ‘Cray’?” echoed Sheridan. “I don’t know what you mean. ‘Cray’?”

“No white,” said Herr Favre, with a wave of his hand toward the long rows of houses on both sides of the street. “No white lace window-curtains; all cray lace window-curtains.”

“Oh. I see!” Sheridan laughed indulgently. “You mean ‘gray.’ No, they ain’t, they’re white. I never saw any gray ones.”

Herr Favre shook his head, much amused. “There are no white ones,” he said. “There is no white anything in your city; no white window-curtains, no white house, no white peeble!” He pointed upward. “Smoke!” Then he sniffed the air and clasped his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Smoke! Smoke ef’rywhere. Smoke in your insites.” He tapped his chest. “Smoke in your lunks!”

“Oh! Smoke!” Sheridan cried with gusto, drawing in