Below, the damask was lit both by rose silk-shaded candles and by the
radiance of a suspended alabaster bowl. August Turnbull sat at the head
of a table laden with silver and crystal and flowers. There were
individual pepper mills--he detested adulterated or stale spices--
carved goblets for water, cocktail glasses with enameled roosters, ruby
goblets like blown flowers and little gilt-speckled liqueur glasses;
there were knives with steel blades, knives all of silver, and gold
fruit knives; there were slim oyster forks, entree forks of solid
design, and forks of filigree; a bank of spoons by a plate that would
be presently removed, unused, for other filled plates.
Opposite him Emmy's place was still empty, but his son, Morice, in the
olive drab and bar of a first lieutenant, together with his wife, was
already present. August was annoyed by any delay: one of the marks of a
properly controlled household, a house admirably conscious of the
importance of order--and obedience--was an utter promptness at the
table. Then, silent and unsubstantial as a shadow, Emmy Turnbull
slipped into her seat.
August gazed at her with the secret resentment more and more inspired
by her sickness. At first he had been merely dogmatic--she must recover
under the superlative advice and attention he was able to summon for
her. Then his impatience had swung about toward all doctors--they were
a pack of incompetent fools, medicine was nothing more than an
organized swindle.
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