Beside the window looking out upon a gray-brick wall almost within reach,
a canary with a white-fluted curtain about the cage dozed headless. Beside
that window, covered in flowered chintz, a sewing-machine that could
collapse to a table; a golden-oak sideboard laid out in pressed glassware.
A homely simplicity here saved by chance or chintz from the simply homely.

Mr. Harry Ross drew up immediately beside the spread table, jerking
open his newspaper and, head thrown back, read slantingly down at the
head-lines.

"Hello, pop!"

"Hello, son!"

"Watch out!"

"Hah--that's the stuff! Don't spill!"

He jammed the newspaper between his and the chair back, shoving in closer
to the table. He was blond to ashiness, so that the slicked-back hair might
or might not be graying. Pink-shaved, unlined, nose-glasses polished to
sparkle, he was ten years his wife's senior and looked those ten years
younger. Clerks and clergymen somehow maintain that youth of the flesh, as
if life had preserved them in alcohol or shaving-lotion. Mrs. Ross entered
then in her crisp but faded house dress, her round, intent face still
moistly pink, two steaming dishes held out.

He did not rise, but reached up to kiss her as she passed.

"Burnt your soup a little to-night, mother."