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初婚有刺
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coffee grounds and glare at one another's kimonos.
At this sink Hetty found a girl with heavy, gold-brown, artistic hair
and plaintive eyes, washing two large Irish potatoes. Hetty knew the
Vallambrosa as well as any one not owning double hextra-magnifying
eyes could compass its mysteries. The kimonos were her encyclopedia,
her Who's What? her clearinghouse of news, of goers and comers.
From a rose-pink kimono edged with Nile green she had learned that the
girl with the potatoes was a miniature-painter living in a kind of attic—or studio, as they prefer to call it—on the top floor. Hetty was not
certain in her mind what a miniature was; but it certainly wasn't a house;
because house-painters, although they wear splashy overalls and poke
ladders in your face on the street, are known to indulge in a riotous profusion of food at home.
The potato girl was quite slim and small, and handled her potatoes as
an old bachelor uncle handles a baby who is cutting teeth. She had a dull
shoemaker's knife in her right hand, and she had begun to peel one of
the potatoes with it.
Hetty addressed her in the punctiliously formal tone of one who intends to be cheerfully familiar with you in the second round.
Beg pardon, she said, for butting into what's not my business, but if
you peel them potatoes you lose out. They're new Bermudas. You want
to scrape 'em. Lemme show you.
She took a potato and the knife, and began to demonstrate.
Oh, thank you, breathed the artist. I didn't know. And I did hate to
see the thick peeling go; it seemed such a waste. But I thought they
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always had to be peeled. When you've got only potatoes to eat, the peelings count, you know.
Say, kid, said Hetty, staying her knife, you ain't up against it, too,
are you?
The miniature artist smiled starvedly.
I suppose I am. Art—or, at least, the way I interpret it—doesn't seem
to be much in demand. I have only these potatoes for my dinner. But
they aren't so bad boiled and hot, with a little butter and salt.
Child, said Hetty, letting a brief smile soften her rigid features, Fate
has sent me and you together. I've had it handed to me in the neck, too;
but I've got a chunk of meat in my, room as big as a lap-dog. And I've
done everything to get potatoes except pray for 'em. Let's me and you
bunch our commissary departments and make a stew of 'em. We'll cook
it in my room. If we only had an onion to go in it! Say, kid, you haven't
got a couple of pennies that've slipped down into the lining of your last
winter's sealskin, have you? I could step down to the corner and get one
at old Giuseppe's stand. A stew without an onion is worse'n a matinée
without candy.
You may call me Cecilia, said the artist. No; I spent my last penny
three days ago.
Then we'll have to cut the onion out instead of slicing it in, said
Hetty. I'd ask the janitress for one, but I don't want 'em hep just yet to
the fact that I'm pounding the asphalt for another job. But I wish we did
have an onion.
In the shop-girl's room the two began to prepare their supper. Cecilia's
part was to sit on the couch helplessly and beg to be allowed to do
something, in the voice of a cooing ring-dove. Hetty prepared the rib
beef, putting it in cold salted water in the stew-pan and setting it on the
one-burner gas-stove.
I wish we had an onion, said Hetty, as she scraped the two potatoes.
On the wall opposite the couch was pinned a flaming, gorgeous advertising picture of one of the new ferry-boats of the P. U. F. F. Railroad
that had been built to cut down the time between Los Angeles and New
York City one-eighth of a minute.
Hetty, turning her head during her continuous monologue, saw tears
running from her guest's eyes as she gazed on the idealized presentment
of the speeding, foam-girdled transport.
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Why, say, Cecilia, kid, said Hetty, poising her knife, is it as bad art
as that? I ain't a critic; but I thought it kind of brightened up the room. Of
course, a manicure-painter could tell it was a bum picture in a minute.
I'll take it down if you say so. I wish to the holy Saint Potluck we had an
onion.
But the miniature miniature-painter had tumbled down, sobbing, with
her nose indenting the hard-woven drapery of the couch. Something was
here deeper than the artistic temperament offended at crude lithography.
Hetty knew. She had accepted her rôle long ago. How scant the words
with which we try to describe a single quality of a human being! When
以上為部分近期熱門小說，平臺有近100萬部小說供您閱讀，進入「免費小說全本」公眾號。公眾號菜單欄「進入書城」在「書城首頁」可查找所有小說