"Not yet--no, sir!" the two girls said together unhesitatingly.
Leonard could take care of himself under his father's displeasure.
Martie added solicitously, "Would you like your slippers, Pa? I know
where they are; by the chestard."

He did not immediately answer, being indeed in no mood for a civil
response, and yet finding no welcome cause for grievance. He sat, a
lean, red-faced man, with a drooping black moustache, a high-bridged
nose, and grizzled hair, looking moodily about him.

"Get them--get them; don't stand staring there, Martie!" he burst
out suddenly. Martie caught up his shoes and dashed upstairs.

She went into the large, vault-like apartment that had been her
mother's bedroom for nearly thirty years. To a young and ardent
nature, facing the great question of loving and mating, any place
less indicative of the warmth and companionship of marriage could
hardly have been imagined. The bedstead of heavy redwood was wide,
flat, and hard. It was flanked by a marble-topped table and a chair.
There were two large, curtained bay windows in this room, too, a
faded carpet, a wash-stand with two pallid towels on the rack,
several other stiff-backed chairs, and a large bureau with a square
mirror and a brown marble slab. Over this slab a thin strip of
fringed scarf was laid, and on the scarf stood a brown satin box,
with the word "Gloves" painted over the yellow roses that ornamented
its cover.

This was all. Mrs. Monroe kept in the box an odd castor, an empty
cologne bottle, a new corset string, five coat buttons, a rusty pair