What difference does it make?”
“Quite a lot, I should think. You wouldn’t go out peddling heroin so you could woo your sister. Even Lord Byron didn’t go that far.”
“He didn’t have to,” Sarah snapped back. “He was rich.”
“So he was. Who knows, Chet Arthur might have been another Byron if he’d shown a bit more forethought in picking his ancestors. It’s a sobering thought, quite wasted on me at the moment since I haven’t had my first drink of the day. Speaking of which, would you care to join me for breakfast? Egbert could make us a pitcherful of nutritious, vitamin-rich Bloody Marys.”
“Ugh,” said Sarah. “Not-for me, thank you. My child and I are abstaining for the duration.”
“Hell of a way to bring up a kid, in my considered opinion. How about you, Max?”
“Sorry, I’m working.”
“Gad, what a depressing pair you turned out to be. What are you going to do now?”
Max glanced at his watch. “Quarter past eleven. Loveday must be off to his skim milk by now. I think we might stroll back to the center. Unless you’d rather have me walk you home or stay here and watch Jem guzzle, Sarah?”
“No, I’d rather go with you. Perhaps we could drop in at the Union Oyster House for a bowl of chowder afterward. I’m so sick of plain milk.”
“Must you go using words like milk in my presence?” Jem groaned. “Take her away, Max. I’m in a delicate condition myself.”
When they returned to the center, they found both Dolph and Mary there. Mary was helping Joan and another woman set out a lunch of soup and crackers. Dolph, much to Sarah’s surprise, was doing something to the coffee urn in a brisk and competent manner. The room was filling up; already a line had formed at the buffet table.
As Sarah and Max hesitated, not wanting to break into the line, Mary caught sight of them and waved. “Hi. Come to have a bite with us?”
“Not today, thanks,” said Max. “The little mother’s clamoring for pickles and ice cream. We just wanted to talk to you and Dolph for a few minutes, but it looks as if we’ve come at a bad time.”
“Oh no, we’re all set up. Annie and Joan can serve. Would you mind, girls? Harry, could you take over for Dolph at the coffee urn?”
“Glad to.”
A shortish man in a wrinkled but clean plaid shirt stepped out of the line. He was the one who’d been reading the church magazine earlier, Sarah noticed, and he made an almost laughable contrast to the man directly behind him. Whereas Harry was spruce and shaven, the other had carried dirtiness almost to the point of becoming an art form. His hair looked as if he’d washed it in used crankcase oil, powdered it with grit, then combed it backward to achieve the maximum effect of spiky dishevelment. His face and hands were so thoroughly begrimed that his bright blue eyes came almost as a shock. His clothes—but Sarah didn’t want to think about his clothes. She turned her eyes to Mary and kept them there.
Mary gave the clean man a smile and a nod of thanks, then came around from behind the serving table, rolling down the sleeves of her cheery green smock. Dolph was right after her.
“Now then,” said Mary, “why don’t we go into the kitchen? Nobody’s there at the moment. Is it about Chet?”
They were still too close to the waiting members. “About the funeral,” Sarah said quickly. “Theonia wants to know what to bake.”
Mary hustled them into the back room and over to the area that had been partitioned off from the salvage depot to hold a stove and a sink. “What did I do?” she asked when she’d got the door shut. “Open my mouth and put my foot in it as usual? What’s the matter?”
“Now dear,” said Dolph, “don’t you start worrying. Whatever it is, Max and I can take care of it. Why don’t you go out to the desk and call Theonia?”
“I’ve already spoken to Theonia, she’s making brownies, and you needn’t go thumping your manly chest at me, Tarzan of the
“Quite a lot, I should think. You wouldn’t go out peddling heroin so you could woo your sister. Even Lord Byron didn’t go that far.”
“He didn’t have to,” Sarah snapped back. “He was rich.”
“So he was. Who knows, Chet Arthur might have been another Byron if he’d shown a bit more forethought in picking his ancestors. It’s a sobering thought, quite wasted on me at the moment since I haven’t had my first drink of the day. Speaking of which, would you care to join me for breakfast? Egbert could make us a pitcherful of nutritious, vitamin-rich Bloody Marys.”
“Ugh,” said Sarah. “Not-for me, thank you. My child and I are abstaining for the duration.”
“Hell of a way to bring up a kid, in my considered opinion. How about you, Max?”
“Sorry, I’m working.”
“Gad, what a depressing pair you turned out to be. What are you going to do now?”
Max glanced at his watch. “Quarter past eleven. Loveday must be off to his skim milk by now. I think we might stroll back to the center. Unless you’d rather have me walk you home or stay here and watch Jem guzzle, Sarah?”
“No, I’d rather go with you. Perhaps we could drop in at the Union Oyster House for a bowl of chowder afterward. I’m so sick of plain milk.”
“Must you go using words like milk in my presence?” Jem groaned. “Take her away, Max. I’m in a delicate condition myself.”
When they returned to the center, they found both Dolph and Mary there. Mary was helping Joan and another woman set out a lunch of soup and crackers. Dolph, much to Sarah’s surprise, was doing something to the coffee urn in a brisk and competent manner. The room was filling up; already a line had formed at the buffet table.
As Sarah and Max hesitated, not wanting to break into the line, Mary caught sight of them and waved. “Hi. Come to have a bite with us?”
“Not today, thanks,” said Max. “The little mother’s clamoring for pickles and ice cream. We just wanted to talk to you and Dolph for a few minutes, but it looks as if we’ve come at a bad time.”
“Oh no, we’re all set up. Annie and Joan can serve. Would you mind, girls? Harry, could you take over for Dolph at the coffee urn?”
“Glad to.”
A shortish man in a wrinkled but clean plaid shirt stepped out of the line. He was the one who’d been reading the church magazine earlier, Sarah noticed, and he made an almost laughable contrast to the man directly behind him. Whereas Harry was spruce and shaven, the other had carried dirtiness almost to the point of becoming an art form. His hair looked as if he’d washed it in used crankcase oil, powdered it with grit, then combed it backward to achieve the maximum effect of spiky dishevelment. His face and hands were so thoroughly begrimed that his bright blue eyes came almost as a shock. His clothes—but Sarah didn’t want to think about his clothes. She turned her eyes to Mary and kept them there.
Mary gave the clean man a smile and a nod of thanks, then came around from behind the serving table, rolling down the sleeves of her cheery green smock. Dolph was right after her.
“Now then,” said Mary, “why don’t we go into the kitchen? Nobody’s there at the moment. Is it about Chet?”
They were still too close to the waiting members. “About the funeral,” Sarah said quickly. “Theonia wants to know what to bake.”
Mary hustled them into the back room and over to the area that had been partitioned off from the salvage depot to hold a stove and a sink. “What did I do?” she asked when she’d got the door shut. “Open my mouth and put my foot in it as usual? What’s the matter?”
“Now dear,” said Dolph, “don’t you start worrying. Whatever it is, Max and I can take care of it. Why don’t you go out to the desk and call Theonia?”
“I’ve already spoken to Theonia, she’s making brownies, and you needn’t go thumping your manly chest at me, Tarzan of the
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