"Oh, of course, I don't admire that spirit--or lack of it," he replied.
"But--what are you going to do? It's the flunkies or the Barbaras and
Marys--or doing our own work."

To Hiram Ranger that seemed unanswerable, and his resentment against his
son for expressing ideas for which he had utter contempt seemed
unreasonable. Again reason put him in the wrong, though instinct was
insisting that he was in the right.

"It's a pity people aren't contented in 'the station to which God has
called them,' as the English prayer book says," continued Arthur, not
catching sensitive Adelaide's warning frown.

"If your mother and I had been content," said Hiram, "you and Delia would
be looking for places in the canning factory." The remark was doubly
startling--for the repressed energy of its sarcasm, and because, as a
rule, Hiram never joined in the discussions in the family circle.

They were at the table, all except Mrs. Ranger. She had disappeared in
the direction of the kitchen and presently reappeared bearing a soup
tureen, which she set down before her husband. "I don't dare ask Mary to
wait on the table," said she. "If I did, she's just in the humor to up
and light out, too; and your mother's got no hankering for hanging over a
hot stove in this weather."

She transferred the pile of soup plates from the sideboard and seated
herself. Her husband poured the soup, and the plates were passed from
hand to hand until all were served. "If the Sandyses could see us now,
Del," said Arthur.