Siegmund put on his slipper, and began to unlace the other boot. The
slurring of the lace through the holes and the snacking of the tag
seemed unnecessarily loud. It annoyed his wife. She took a breath to
speak, then refrained, feeling suddenly her daughter's scornful
restraint upon her. Siegmund rested his arms upon his knees, and sat
leaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace, which was littered
with paper, and orange-peel, and a banana-skin.
'Do you want any supper?' asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of
her voice startled him into looking at her.
She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund's heart went
down with weariness and despair at the sight of her.
'Aren't _you_ having any?' he asked.
The table was not laid. Beatrice's work-basket, a little wicker
fruit-skep, overflowed scissors, and pins, and scraps of holland, and
reels of cotton on the green serge cloth. Vera leaned both her elbows on
the table.
Instead of replying to him, Beatrice went to the sideboard. She took out
a table-cloth, pushing her sewing litter aside, and spread the cloth
over one end of the table. Vera gave her magazine a little knock
with her hand.
'Have you read this tale of a French convent school in here, Mother?'
she asked.
'In where?' In this month's _Nash's_.' 'No,' replied Beatrice. 'What time have I for reading, much less for
anything else?' 'You should think more of yourself, and a little less of other people,
then,' said Vera, with a sneer at the 'other people'. She rose. 'Let me
do this. You sit down; you are tired, Mother,' she said.
Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed
her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his
thin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms on
his knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking of
crockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heard
chatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fond
tones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail to
her. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity.
Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put 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.