After dinner Howard and Snooky foregathered in the nursery with
their beloved lead soldiers; Travis went to her room to write
letters; and Mr. Bessemer sat in the bay window of the dining-room
reading the paper from end to end.
At five Travis bestirred herself. It was Victorine's afternoon
out. Travis set the table, spreading a cover of blue denim edged
with white braid, which showed off the silver and the set of
delft--her great and never-ending joy--to great effect. Then she
tied her apron about her, and went into the kitchen to make the
mayonnaise dressing for the potato salad, to slice the ham, and to
help the cook (a most inefficient Irish person, taken on only for
that month during the absence of the family's beloved and
venerated Sing Wo) in the matter of preparing the Sunday evening
tea.
Tea was had at half-past five. Never in the history of the family
had its menu varied: cold ham, potato salad, pork and beans,
canned fruit, chocolate, and the inevitable pitcher of ice-water.
In the absence of Victorine, Maggie waited on the table, very
uncomfortable in her one good dress and stiff white apron. She
stood off from the table, making awkward dabs at it from time to
time. In her excess of deference she developed a clumsiness that
was beyond all expression. She passed the plates upon the wrong
side, and remembered herself with a broken apology at inopportune
moments. She dropped a spoon, she spilled the ice-water.
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