Chapter XVII
The days that had been passing brought Frank Cowperwood and Aileen
Butler somewhat closer together in spirit. Because of the pressure of
His growing affairs he had not paid so much attention to her as he might
Have, but he had seen her often this past year. She was now nineteen and
Had grown into some subtle thoughts of her own. For one thing, she was
Beginning to see the difference between good taste and bad taste in
Houses and furnishings.
“Papa, why do we stay in this old barn?” she asked her father one
Evening at dinner, when the usual family group was seated at the table.
“What’s the matter with this house, I’d like to know?” demanded Butler,
Who was drawn up close to the table, his napkin tucked comfortably under
His chin, for he insisted on this when company was not present. “I don’t
See anything the matter with this house. Your mother and I manage to
Live in it well enough.”
“Oh, it’s terrible, papa. You know it,” supplemented Norah, who was
Seventeen and quite as bright as her sister, though a little less
Experienced. “Everybody says so. Look at all the nice houses that are
Being built everywhere about here.”
“Everybody! Everybody! Who is ‘everybody,’ I’d like to know?” demanded
Butler, with the faintest touch of choler and much humor. “I’m somebody,
And I like it. Those that don’t like it don’t have to live in it. Who
Are they? What’s the matter with it, I’d like to know?”
The question in just this form had been up a number of times before,
And had been handled in just this manner, or passed over entirely with a
Healthy Irish grin. To-night, however, it was destined for a little more
Extended thought.
“You know it’s
bad, papa,” corrected Aileen, firmly. “Now what’s the use
Getting mad about it? It’s old and cheap and dingy. The furniture is all
Worn out. That old piano in there ought to be given away. I won’t play
On it any more. The Cowperwoods – “
“Old is it!” exclaimed Butler, his accent sharpening somewhat with his
Self-induced rage. He almost pronounced it “owled.” “Dingy, hi! Where do
You get that? At your convent, I suppose. And where is it worn? Show me
Where it’s worn.”
He was coming to her reference to Cowperwood, but he hadn’t reached
That when Mrs. Butler interfered. She was a stout, broad-faced woman,
Smiling-mouthed most of the time, with blurry, gray Irish eyes, and a
Touch of red in her hair, now modified by grayness. Her cheek, below the
Mouth, on the left side, was sharply accented by a large wen.
“Children! children!” (Mr. Butler, for all his commercial and political
Responsibility, was as much a child to her as any.) “Youse mustn’t
Quarrel now. Come now. Give your father the tomatoes.”
There was an Irish maid serving at table; but plates were passed from
One to the other just the same. A heavily ornamented chandelier, holding
Sixteen imitation candles in white porcelain, hung low over the table
And was brightly lighted, another offense to Aileen.
“Mama, how often have I told you not to say ‘youse’?” pleaded Norah,
Very much disheartened by her mother’s grammatical errors. “You know you
Said you wouldn’t.”
“And who’s to tell your mother what she should say?” called Butler, more
Incensed than ever at this sudden and unwarranted rebellion and assault.
“Your mother talked before ever you was born, I’d have you know. If it
Weren’t for her workin’ and slavin’ you wouldn’t have any fine manners
To be paradin’ before her. I’d have you know that. She’s a better woman
(No Ratings Yet)