J. HARTLEY HARRISON, his mother, and his grandmother, sat about a neatly laid fireplace that held no ashes and was surrounded by Christmas presents and Gift Shoppe souvenirs of summer holidays—a "witch broom," a Cape Cod fire lighter, a toddy spoon, a never-used trivet for a teapot or a plate of muffins. In the dining room, a spick-and-span continuation of safe browns and greens sprinkled with minute bits of mahogany, they could see Ida filling the water glasses.
"Well, what's new, Hartley?" Mrs. Harrison asked, folding up the napkin she was embroidering with a fat teapot and "Polly put the kettle on, we'll all have tea" in blue cross-stitch. But her son was too good a gossip to yield his real news so lightly.
"It was certainly a made-to-order spring day."
"Yes, it was. I was sorry I wore my high shoes."
"Asparagus'll be getting cheaper."
"Yes, indeed, mother, and you'll like that, won't you?"
"No more than you will, Sadie. Gracious! A body'd think no one in this house ate but me!"
"Dinner's served," said Ida.
"Dinner? Oh-a—Ida! I think it would be nice
