"G. N. or N. P.?"
"I don't think I quite understand----"
Mr. Boltwood interposed, "Are the ham and eggs ready?"
"I'll beat it out and see." When she brought them, she put a spoon in
Claire's saucer of peas, and demanded, "Say, you don't wear that silk
dress in the auto, do you?"
"No."
"I should think you'd put a pink sash on it. Seems like it's kind of
plain--it's a real pretty piece of goods, though. A pink sash would be
real pretty. You dark-complected ladies always looks better for a touch
of color."
Then was Claire certain that the waitress was baiting her, for the
amusement of the men at the long table. She exploded. Probably the
waitress did not know there had been an explosion when Claire looked
coldly up, raised her brows, looked down, and poked the cold and salty
slab of ham, for she was continuing: "A light-complected lady like me don't need so much color, you notice my
hair is black, but I'm light, really, Pete Liverquist says I'm a blonde
brunette, gee, he certainly is killing that fellow, oh, he's a case, he
sure does like to hear himself talk, my! there's Old Man Walters, he
runs the telephone exchange here, I heard he went down to St. Cloud on
Number 2, but I guess he couldn't of, he'll be yodeling for friend soup
and a couple slabs of moo, I better beat it, I'll say so, so long."
Claire's comment was as acid as the pale beets before her, as bitter as
the peas, as hard as the lumps in the watery mashed potatoes: "I don't know whether the woman is insane or ignorant. I wish I could
tell whether she was trying to make me angry for the benefit of those
horrid unshaven men, or merely for her private edification."
"By me, dolly. So is this pie. Let's get some medium to levitate us up
to bed. Uh--uh---- I think perhaps we'd better not try to drive clear to
Seattle. If we just went through to Montana?--or even just to Bismarck?"
"Drive through with the hotels like this? My dear man, if we have one
more such day, we stop right there. I hope we get by the man at the
desk. I have a feeling he's lurking there, trying to think up something
insulting to say to us. Oh, my dear, I hope you aren't as beastly tired
as I am. My bones are hot pokers."
The man at the desk got in only one cynical question, "Driving far?"
before Claire seized her father's arm and started him upstairs.
For the first time since she had been ten--and in a state of naughtiness
immediately following a pronounced state of grace induced by the pulpit
oratory of the new rector of St. Chrysostom's--she permitted herself the
luxury of not stopping to brush her teeth before she went to bed. Her
sleep was drugged--it was not sleep, but an aching exhaustion of the
body which did not prevent her mind from revisualizing the road, going
stupidly over the muddy stretches and sharp corners, then becoming
conscious of that bed, the lump under her shoulder blades, the slope to
westward, and the creak that rose every time she tossed. For at least
fifteen minutes she lay awake for hours.