"I feel like a perfect fool, calling upon these people in this filthy
little rattletrap," Mrs. Poundstone protested as they passed up the
cement walk toward the Pennington portal.
Mayor Poundstone paused. Had he been Medusa, the glance he bent upon
his spouse would have transformed her instantly into a not
particularly symmetrical statue of concrete. He had reached the
breaking-point.
"In pity's name, woman," he growled, "talk about something else. Give
me one night of peace. Let me enjoy my dinner and this visit."
"I can't help it," Mrs. P. retorted with asperity. She pointed to
Shirley Sumner's car parked under the porte-cochere. "If I had a
sedan like that, I could die happy. And it only cost thirty-two
hundred and fifty dollars."
"I paid six hundred and fifty for the rattletrap, and I couldn't
afford that," he almost whimpered. "You were happy with it until I
was elected mayor."
"You forget our social position, my dear," she purred sweetly.
He could have struck her. "Hang your social position," he gritted
savagely. "Shut up, will you? Social position in a sawmill town!
Rats!"
"Sh--sh! Control yourself, Henry!" She plucked gently at his arm;
with her other hand she lifted the huge knocker on the front door.
"Dammit, you'll drive me crazy yet," Poundstone gurgled, and
subsided.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333