Once more he started on his way. His daily trudge to and from his office was the result of a calculation that enough car fare was saved each year to buy an extra gown for his daughter. It was characteristic of him.
When he turned into the street where he lived he noticed that in spite of the struggling little grass plots in front of the houses and the soft spring-sweetened air of the evening, the scene was more obnoxious than ever. Before he reached the door of the new yellow brick apartment, squeezed between two old houses to whose bow fronts still clung the suggestion of a respectability long since dead and buried, the incident of his first meeting with his four old classmates had caused him a host of bitter reflections and comparisons. He found himself defending his self-respect. All the teasing of life that he had endured through long years now assailed him as never before.
Life had toyed with him, showing her splendors and snatching them from under his fingers; had taught him culture and then laughed at him.
He lived in an apartment, since suburban life was wearing and expensive, but he never had quite got over his contempt for this sort of abode or manner of living. For years he had periodically told his wife what sort of a country place he would have, always beginning, “When we get on our feet and things are straightened out —” The description included an avenue overhung with trees, and was generally illustrated by a hasty pencil sketch of a very expensive house, and interrupted by a dissertation on interior decoration and fine rugs and beauty and comfort. His wife never failed to listen to him half entranced, and yet in need of all her courage, since as time flew by it seemed a greater and greater shame that this dream, like the others, would never come true. Sometimes he spoke of Edith’s “coming out,” which, though absurd from the first because of their circumstances and seclusion, became triply ridiculous when his daughter had grown too old for it. They were surrounded by inferior persons; inferior persons occupied the apartment below them and had a copy of the Rubaiyat on their parlor table, overbound in soft leather, with a claret stain on the back. He treated them with such unruffled dignity and courtesy that they said he must be a gentleman, and they always spoke as if a gentleman were a species nearly extinct.
The rattle of his key brought his wife and daughter to the door, and the usual smiles and kisses of welcome, which made each home-coming seem a special occasion and above the rank of an everyday occurrence, reminded him of the old duty of keeping his feelings to himself. He raised his head, put on his armor of patience, and girded up his loins with the vestiges of the cheer and humor which had years before made him such an attractive boy.
“Was there any mail to-day?” he asked.
“A note from Brown, Culver, and Co.,” replied his wife, furtively. She was a little woman with great vitality in her eyes.
”They want their money?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to get it together somehow, Alice. We always have. They’ve all been paid sooner or later, haven’t they?” He was obviously anxious that his wife should not be troubled, and for the moment thoughtless of his own worry. It was just like him.
His daughter hastened to assist at the burial of an unpleasant subject. “There was a postal card came to-day for you, dad.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Clews; “it had been to all of the four places we have lived since we came back from Iowa, and so it was late in getting here.”
“It was the announcement of the twenty-fifth anniversary dinner of your class,” added Edith, taking his hat and following him into the front room.
“You’ve never been to the dinners,” said his wife, somewhat anxiously. “You’ll go to this one, won’t you?”
“Where’s the postal?” he asked, quietly.
“Do go, dad,” urged Edith, pointing to the card on the mantel. “You belong there. Both mother and I have spoken of it. We don’t like to have you forgotten.” She put her hand upon her father’s shoulder.
