Miss Lulu Bett | Page 2

good--that's good. The
baked potato contains more nourishment than potatoes prepared in any
other way. The nourishment is next to the skin. Roasting retains it."
"That's what I always think," said his wife pleasantly.
For fifteen years they had agreed about this.
They ate, in the indecent silence of first savouring food. A delicate
crunching of crust, an odour of baked-potato shells, the slip and touch
of the silver.
"Num, num, nummy-num!" sang the child Monona loudly, and was
hushed by both parents in simultaneous exclamation which rivalled this
lyric outburst. They were alone at table. Di, daughter of a wife early
lost to Mr. Deacon, was not there. Di was hardly ever there. She was at
that age. That age, in Warbleton.
A clock struck the half hour.
"It's curious," Mr. Deacon observed, "how that clock loses. It must be
fully quarter to." He consulted his watch. "It is quarter to!" he
exclaimed with satisfaction. "I'm pretty good at guessing time."
"I've noticed that!" cried his Ina.
"Last night, it was only twenty-three to, when the half hour struck," he
reminded her.
"Twenty-one, I thought." She was tentative, regarded him with arched
eyebrows, mastication suspended.
This point was never to be settled. The colloquy was interrupted by the
child Monona, whining for her toast. And the doorbell rang.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Deacon. "What can anybody be thinking of to call
just at meal-time?"
He trod the hall, flung open the street door. Mrs. Deacon listened. Lulu,

coming in with the toast, was warned to silence by an uplifted finger.
She deposited the toast, tiptoed to her chair. A withered baked potato
and cold creamed salmon were on her plate. The child Monona ate with
shocking appreciation. Nothing could be made of the voices in the hall.
But Mrs. Bett's door was heard softly to unlatch. She, too, was
listening.
A ripple of excitement was caused in the dining-room when Mr.
Deacon was divined to usher some one to the parlour. Mr. Deacon
would speak with this visitor in a few moments, and now returned to
his table. It was notable how slight a thing would give him a sense of
self-importance. Now he felt himself a man of affairs, could not even
have a quiet supper with his family without the outside world
demanding him. He waved his hand to indicate it was nothing which
they would know anything about, resumed his seat, served himself to a
second spoon of salmon and remarked, "More roast duck, anybody?" in
a loud voice and with a slow wink at his wife. That lady at first looked
blank, as she always did in the presence of any humour couched with
the least indirection, and then drew back her chin and caught her lower
lip in her gold-filled teeth. This was her conjugal rebuking.
Swedenborg always uses "conjugial." And really this sounds more
married. It should be used with reference to the Deacons. No one was
ever more married than they--at least than Mr. Deacon. He made little
conjugal jokes in the presence of Lulu who, now completely unnerved
by the habit, suspected them where they did not exist, feared lurking
entendre in the most innocent comments, and became more tense every
hour of her life.
And now the eye of the master of the house fell for the first time upon
the yellow tulip in the centre of his table.
"Well, well!" he said. "What's this?"
Ina Deacon produced, fleetly, an unlooked-for dimple.
"Have you been buying flowers?" the master inquired.

"Ask Lulu," said Mrs. Deacon.
He turned his attention full upon Lulu.
"Suitors?" he inquired, and his lips left their places to form a sort of
ruff about the word.
Lulu flushed, and her eyes and their very brows appealed.
"It was a quarter," she said. "There'll be five flowers."
"You bought it?"
"Yes. There'll be five--that's a nickel apiece."
His tone was as methodical as if he had been talking about the bread.
"Yet we give you a home on the supposition that you have no money to
spend, even for the necessities."
His voice, without resonance, cleft air, thought, spirit, and even flesh.
Mrs. Deacon, indeterminately feeling her guilt in having let loose the
dogs of her husband upon Lulu, interposed: "Well, but, Herbert--Lulu
isn't strong enough to work. What's the use...."
She dwindled. For years the fiction had been sustained that Lulu, the
family beast of burden, was not strong enough to work anywhere else.
"The justice business--" said Dwight Herbert Deacon--he was a justice
of the peace--"and the dental profession--" he was also a dentist--"do
not warrant the purchase of spring flowers in my home."
"Well, but, Herbert--" It was his wife again.
"No more," he cried briefly, with a slight bend of his head. "Lulu meant
no