The Shoulders of Atlas | Page 4

when, so far as I can tell, commandments are about the only things I've
been able to keep without taxes--till I'm tired of it."
"Wait till after supper," repeated the lawyer again, with smiling
mystery. He had a large, smooth face, with gray hair on the sides of his
head and none on top. He had good, placid features, and an easy
expression. He ate two platefuls of the flapjacks, then two pieces of
cake, and a large slice of custard pie! He was very fond of sweets.
After supper was over Henry and Meeks returned to the sitting-room,
and sat down beside the two front windows. It was a small, square
room furnished with Sylvia's chief household treasures. There was a
hair-cloth sofa, which she and Henry had always regarded as an
extravagance and had always viewed with awe. There were two rockers,
besides one easy-chair, covered with old-gold plush--also an
extravagance. There was a really beautiful old mahogany table with
carved base, of which neither Henry nor Sylvia thought much. Sylvia
meditated selling enough Calkin's soap to buy a new one, and stow that
away in Mr. Allen's room. Mr. Allen professed great admiration for it,
to her wonderment. There was also a fine, old, gold-framed mirror, and
some china vases on the mantel-shelf. Sylvia was rather ashamed of
them. Mrs. Jim Jones had a mirror which she had earned by selling
Calkin's soap, which Sylvia considered much handsomer. She would
have had ambitions in that direction also, but Henry was firm in his
resolve not to have the mirror displaced, nor the vases, although Sylvia
descanted upon the superior merits of some vases with gilded pedestals
which Mrs. Sam Elliot had in her parlor.
Meeks regarded the superb old table with appreciation as he sat in the

sitting-room after supper. "Fine old piece," he said.
Henry looked at it doubtfully. It had been in a woodshed of his
grandfather's house, when he was a boy, and he was not as confident
about that as he was about the mirror and vases, which had always
maintained their parlor estate.
"Sylvia don't think much of it," he said. "She's crazy to have one of
carved oak like one Mrs. Jim Jones has."
"Carved oak fiddlestick!" said Sidney Meeks. "It's a queer thing that so
much virtue and real fineness of character can exist in a woman without
the slightest trace of taste for art."
Henry looked resentful. "Sylvia has taste, as much taste as most
women," he said. "She simply doesn't like to see the same old things
around all the time, and I don't know as I blame her. The world has
grown since that table was made, there's no doubt about that. It stands
to reason furniture has improved, too."
"Glad there's something you see in a bright light, Henry."
"I must say that I like this new mission furniture, myself, pretty well,"
said Henry, somewhat importantly.
"That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old that's new is the
newest thing in all creation," said Meeks. "Sylvia is a foolish woman if
she parts with this magnificent old piece for any reproduction made in
job lots."
"Oh, she isn't going to part with it. Mr. Allen will like it in his room.
He thinks as much of it as you do."
"He's right, too," said Meeks. "There's carving for you; there's a fine
grain of wood."
"It's very hard to keep clean," said Sylvia, as she came in rubbing her
moist hands. "Now, that new Flemish oak is nothing at all to take care

of, Mrs. Jones says."
"This is worth taking care of," said Meeks. "Now, Sylvia, sit down. I
have something to tell you and Henry."
Sylvia sat down. Something in the lawyer's manner aroused hers and
her husband's keenest attention. They looked at him and waited. Both
were slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and Henry was
large-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn similar lines in
both faces. They looked singularly alike.
Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence to
gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. "I had something to tell
you when I came in," he said, "but I thought I had better wait till after
supper."
He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes
seemed to wax luminous.
Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely.
"What relation is Abrahama White to you?" he said.
"She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother's
cousin," said Henry. "What of it?"
"Nothing, except--" Meeks waited again. He wished to make a coup.
He had an instinct for climaxes. "Abrahama had a shock this morning,"
he said, suddenly.
"A shock?" said Henry.
Sylvia echoed him. "A shock!" she