Fred turned to look at Hazel, and she was lying drowsily awake, smiling at him.

‘Isn’t it lovely — the room,’ she said, blessedly making no comment whatever upon his hour of returning last night. ‘But what I was thinking was: I never enjoyed a drive in my life as much as yesterday. When we were a young married couple, there were always the children along, bawling and asking questions. Remember how Sara used to say “Why?” . . . “Ma-ma, why is that man ploughing the field?” “So he can plant his seed — now hush, dear.” “Why?” “So he can grow crops.” “Why?” “So he can sell them.” “Why?” “So he can support his family.” “Why?”’

‘Sensible question, the last one.’

‘And ever since, seems like we’ve always had to get somewhere on time, and then get right back for an “important engagement”.’

‘I didn’t know how you’d feel this morning, when you woke up and had another look at this dump.’

‘I don’t mind it, because I don’t have to worry about whether Hilda will get around to vacuum-cleaning it today. Honestly, did I ever worry about things like that? Seems so long ago.’

‘Don’t it!’ What a little wizard he was, Fred exulted. Already he had Hazel half-cured of her slavery to possessions. Then she was firmly remarking:

‘Fun here — for a change — for one night. But of course I didn’t sleep much. This mattress is like a relief map of the Adirondacks. But it might be nice to have a nice cottage in the country.’

‘Yes!’

‘But of course we’d want it nice — you know — a swimming pool and a greenhouse, oh, just a little one. But nice. And I do think, mornings when you don’t feel so good, it’s economy in the long run to have the girl bring you a nice breakfast in bed.’

‘Well,’ said the diminished Fredk Wm.

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Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 25

The hills were not so proud as their own Adirondacks, but softer, more feminine, thought Fred, as they came to Stonefield, a dormered and white-spired hamlet in the Berkshires. The tavern, where Fred again craftily registered as Frederick Williams, N.Y., was no Daisy Dell, but a competent grey-shingled inn, and the annex cottages were isolated on the slope of a hillside dark with pines, light with maples, gleaming with a cleared meadow.

In front, the Cornplows’ cottage looked from a half-screened wide porch, through the columns of a pine grove, to a meadow, and to a pond which would be silver at dawn, blazing in late afternoon, a shield of rose and black just after sunset. At the back, from a minute brick terrace edged with gloxinia, it looked up to the hills, which led the exploring eye from a mountain ridge to ever higher ridges beyond. There were but three rooms: living-room, double bedroom, and kitchen with dining alcove. The cottagers could prepare their own meals or dine at the tavern.