had gotten the better of her highfalutin airs. He'd show her.
"Wouldn't you love to know?" he parried.
Stupid ass! Helen eyed him coldly. "No," she answered. "I wouldn't. I don't care. I was just making conversation because I know you are dying to talk about yourself. Now, you can go talk to Nellie."
"Is that so? Say, there are people a hell of a sight smarter than you who listen to me talk. What's more, you'd never guess what I did get for the business."
Young Hubert laughed. Helen turned away from him. He looked like his father when he laughed. The same wrinkles about the eyes and the same silly, uncontrolled note of hysteria. There was consolation in remembering however that at twenty he was more intelligent and sophisticated than his father was at forty-two. His hair was red but correctly smooth and barbered. Behind his blue, Scott eyes there was a Dietz brain and Helen had learned that it was the brain that mattered.
She carved two more slices off the roast. Hubert passed his empty plate to her and she re-filled it. As she gave him his second helping of mashed potatoes she turned to her son. He was lighting a cigarette. "Don't you want something more?" she asked.
"No. I wasn't hungry tonight."
"No, you weren't. Well, if you're finished—" She rose and moved with a carefully acquired grace into the living-room. Her son followed her. Hubert was left behind with his well-filled plate and the mingled fragrances of his wife's perfume and his son's cigarette.
