Alice Adams - Booth Tarkington (chrome ebook reader .TXT) 📗

don’t know what to do about it! I only got one other white shirt, and it’s kind of ruined: I tried it before I did this one. Do you s’pose you could do anything?”

“I’ll see,” she said.

“My collar’s got a frayed edge,” he complained, as she examined his troublesome shirt. “It’s a good deal like wearing a saw; but I expect it’ll wilt down flat pretty soon, and not bother me long. I’m liable to wilt down flat, myself, I expect; I don’t know as I remember any such hot night in the last ten or twelve years.” He lifted his head and sniffed the flaccid air, which was laden with a heavy odour. “My, but that smell is pretty strong!” he said.

“Stand still, please, papa,” Alice begged him. “I can’t see what’s the matter if you move around. How absurd you are about your old glue smell, papa! There isn’t a vestige of it, of course.”

“I didn’t mean glue,” he informed her. “I mean cabbage. Is that fashionable now, to have cabbage when there’s company for dinner?”

“That isn’t cabbage, papa. It’s Brussels sprouts.”

“Oh, is it? I don’t mind it much, because it keeps that glue smell off me, but it’s fairly strong. I expect you don’t notice it so much because you been in the house with it all along, and got used to it while it was growing.”

“It is pretty dreadful,” Alice said. “Are all the windows open downstairs?”

“I’ll go down and see, if you’ll just fix that hole up for me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “Not unless you take your shirt off and bring it to me. I’ll have to sew the hole smaller.”

“Oh, well, I’ll go ask your mother to⁠—”

“No,” said Alice. “She’s got everything on her hands. Run and take it off. Hurry, papa; I’ve got to arrange the flowers on the table before he comes.”

He went away, and came back presently, half undressed, bringing the shirt. “There’s one comfort,” he remarked, pensively, as she worked. “I’ve got that collar off⁠—for a while, anyway. I wish I could go to table like this; I could stand it a good deal better. Do you seem to be making any headway with the dang thing?”

“I think probably I can⁠—”

Downstairs the doorbell rang, and Alice’s arms jerked with the shock.

“Golly!” her father said. “Did you stick your finger with that fool needle?”

She gave him a blank stare. “He’s come!”

She was not mistaken, for, upon the little veranda, Russell stood facing the closed door at last. However, it remained closed for a considerable time after he rang. Inside the house the warning summons of the bell was immediately followed by another sound, audible to Alice and her father as a crash preceding a series of muffled falls. Then came a distant voice, bitter in complaint.

“Oh, Lord!” said Adams. “What’s that?”

Alice went to the top of the front stairs, and her mother appeared in the hall below.

“Mama!”

Mrs. Adams looked up. “It’s all right,” she said, in a loud whisper. “Gertrude fell down the cellar stairs. Somebody left a bucket there, and⁠—” She was interrupted by a gasp from Alice, and hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry, dearie. She may limp a little, but⁠—”

Adams leaned over the banisters. “Did she break anything?” he asked.

“Hush!” his wife whispered. “No. She seems upset and angry about it, more than anything else; but she’s rubbing herself, and she’ll be all right in time to bring in the little sandwiches. Alice! Those flowers!”

“I know, mama. But⁠—”

“Hurry!” Mrs. Adams warned her. “Both of you hurry! I must let him in!”

She turned to the door, smiling cordially, even before she opened it. “Do come right in, Mr. Russell,” she said, loudly, lifting her voice for additional warning to those above. “I’m so glad to receive you informally, this way, in our own little home. There’s a hat-rack here under the stairway,” she continued, as Russell, murmuring some response, came into the hall. “I’m afraid you’ll think it’s almost too informal, my coming to the door, but unfortunately our housemaid’s just had a little accident⁠—oh, nothing to mention! I just thought we better not keep you waiting any longer. Will you step into our living-room, please?”

She led the way between the two small columns, and seated herself in one of the plush rocking-chairs, selecting it because Alice had once pointed out that the chairs, themselves, were less noticeable when they had people sitting in them. “Do sit down, Mr. Russell; it’s so very warm it’s really quite a trial just to stand up!”

“Thank you,” he said, as he took a seat. “Yes. It is quite warm.” And this seemed to be the extent of his responsiveness for the moment. He was grave, rather pale; and Mrs. Adams’s impression of him, as she formed it then, was of “a distinguished-looking young man, really elegant in the best sense of the word, but timid and formal when he first meets you.” She beamed upon him, and used with everything she said a continuous accompaniment of laughter, meaningless except that it was meant to convey cordiality. “Of course we do have a great deal of warm weather,” she informed him. “I’m glad it’s so much cooler in the house than it is outdoors.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is pleasanter indoors.” And, stopping with this single untruth, he permitted himself the briefest glance about the room; then his eyes returned to his smiling hostess.

“Most people make a great fuss about hot weather,” she said. “The only person I know who doesn’t mind the heat the way other people do is Alice. She always seems as cool as if we had a breeze blowing, no matter how hot it is. But then she’s so amiable she never minds anything. It’s just her character. She’s always been that way since she was a little child; always the same to everybody, high and low. I think character’s the most important thing in the world, after all, don’t you, Mr. Russell?”

“Yes,” he said, solemnly; and touched his bedewed white forehead with a