It was growing dusk when the elder Ellsworths returned, almost
hidden by great masses of autumn boughs.
“You should have been with us, Ralph,” enthusiastically said his
mother. “I never saw such gorgeous tints in all my life. We have
brought nearly the entire woods with us.”
“It was a good idea,” said Ralph. “A stunning good idea. They may
come in handy to sleep on.”
Mrs. Ellsworth turned cold.
“What do you mean?” she gasped.
“Ralph,” sternly demanded his father, “you don’t mean to tell us
that you let the Van Kamps jockey us out of those rooms after all?”
“Indeed, no,” he airily responded. “Just come right on up and see.”
He led the way into the suite and struck a match. One solitary
candle had been left upon the mantel shelf. Ralph thought that this
had been overlooked, but his mother afterwards set him right about
that. Mrs. Van Kamp had cleverly left it so that the Ellsworths
could see how dreadfully bare the place was. One candle in three
rooms is drearier than darkness anyhow.
Mrs. Ellsworth took in all the desolation, the dismal expanse
of the now enormous apartments, the shabby walls, the hideous
bright spots where pictures had hung, the splintered flooring, the
great, gaunt windows—and she gave in. She had met with snub after
snub, and cut after cut, in her social climb, she had had the
cook quit in the middle of an important dinner, she had had every
disconcerting thing possible happen to her, but this—this was the
last _bale_ of straw. She sat down on a suitcase, in the middle of
the biggest room, and cried!
Ralph, having waited for this, now told about the food transaction,
and she hastily pushed the last-coming tear back into her eye.
“Good!” she cried. “They will be up here soon. They will be
compelled to compromise, and they must not find me with red eyes.”
She cast a hasty glance around the room, then, in a sudden panic,
seized the candle and explored the other two. She went wildly
out into the hall, back into the little room over the kitchen,
downstairs, everywhere, and returned in consternation.
“There’s not a single mirror left in the house!” she moaned.
Ralph heartlessly grinned. He could appreciate that this was a
characteristic woman trick, and wondered admiringly whether Evelyn
or her mother had thought of it. However, this was a time for
action.
“I’ll get you some water to bathe your eyes,” he offered, and ran
into the little room over the kitchen to get a pitcher. A cracked
shaving-mug was the only vessel that had been left, but he hurried
down into the yard with it. This was no time for fastidiousness.
He had barely creaked the pump handle when Mr. Van Kamp hurried up
from the barn.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Van Kamp, “but this water
belongs to us. My daughter bought it, all that is in the ground,
above the ground, or that may fall from the sky upon these
premises.”