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“Who asked you to go snooping around my closet to find out whether there was any liquor there or not?”

“I didn’t know there was any secret about it.”

“And hereafter, I’ll do the inviting.”

“But, Mother, it’s Father.”

“Don’t stand there and look me in the eye and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know you had no business saying what you did, and you knew it at the time, I could tell by the cheeky look on your face.”

“Very well, Mother. It shall be as you say.”

“And stop that silly way of talking.”

“But I remind you, just the same, that there was none of this kind of stinginess when Father was doing the inviting. Things have indeed changed here, and not for the better, alas. One might think peasants had taken over the house.”

“Do you know what a peasant is?”

“A peasant is a — very ill-bred person.”

“Sometimes, Veda, I wonder if you have good sense.”

Veda stalked out, and Mildred grimly arranged the tray, wondering why Veda could put her so easily on the defensive, and hurt her so.

Having a drink was a gay ritual in the household, one that had started when Bert made his bathtub gin, and that proceeded on its prescribed course tonight. First he poured two stiff drinks for the children, cluck-clucking loudly at what rummies they were getting to be, and observing that he didn’t know what the younger generation was coming to anyway. Then he poured two light drinks for himself and Mildred, containing perhaps two drops of liquor apiece. Then he put in ice and fizz water, set the drinks on the tray and offered them around. But by a fascinating switcheroo, which Mildred never quite understood, he always contrived to give the children the light drinks, himself and Mildred the others. So adroit was this sleight-of-hand, that the children, in spite of their sharpest watching and concentrating, never got the drinks that were supposedly prepared for them. In the day when all the drinks were exactly the same color, there was always a delightful doubt about it: Bert said the children had got their drinks, and as there was at least a whiff of juniper in all the glasses, they usually decided to agree. Tonight, although the switcheroo went off as smoothly as ever, the color of the Scotch betrayed him. But on his plea of fatigue, and the need of a stimulant, they agreed to accept the light drinks, so he set one of the stiff ones for Mildred, and took the other himself.

It was a ritual, but after the preliminaries were out of the way, it was enjoyed by each child differently. To Veda, it was an opportunity to stick out her little finger, to quaff elegantly, to play Constance Bennett. She regarded it as an occasion for high-toned conversation, and plied her father with lofty questions about “conditions.” He replied seriously, and at some length, for he regarded such inquiries as signs of high mentality on Veda’s part. He said that while things had been mighty bad for some time, he now saw definite signs of improvement, and believed “we’re due to turn the corner pretty soon.”

But to Ray, it was a chance to “get drunk,” as she called it, and this she did with the utmost enthusiasm. As soon as she got half of her fizz water down, she jumped up and began spinning around in the middle of the floor, laughing at the top of her lungs. Mildred caught her glass when this started, and held it for her, and she spun around until she was dizzy and fell down, in a paroxysm of delight. Something always caught in Mildred’s throat when this wild dance began. She felt, in some vague way, that she ought to stop it, but the child was so delightful that she never could make herself do it. So now she watched, with the tears starting out of her eyes, for the moment forgetting the Scotch. But Veda, no longer the center of the stage, said: “Personally, I think it’s a disgusting exhibition.”

Ray now went in to the next phase of the ritual. This was a singsong recitation her father had taught her, and went as follows:

However, as Ray recited it, there were certain changes. “Beasts,” was a little beyond her, so the line became “the birds and the bees.” “Auburn” was a little difficult too, so the old baboon acquired a coat of “old brown hair.” The “monkety-monk” was such a tempting mouthful that he became the “monkety-monkety-monkety-monkety- monk ,” a truly fabulous beast. While she was reciting, her father contrived to slip off his belt and stuff the buckle down the back of his neck, so that suddenly, when he pulled the free end over his head and began trumpeting on all fours, he was a sufficiently plausible elephant for any animals’ fair. Ray began circling around, coming nearer and nearer with her recitation. When she was almost on him, and had tweaked his trunk two or three times, he gave a series of mighty sneezes, so that they completely prostrated him. When he opened his eyes Ray was nowhere to be seen. He now went into a perfect dither of anxiety over what had happened to her, put his head in the fireplace and called loudly up the chimney: “Monkety, monkety, monk.”

“Have you looked in the closet?”

“Mildred, I bet that’s just where she is.”

He opened the closet, put his head in, and called: “Hey.” Mildred suggested the hallway, and he looked out there. Indeed, he looked everywhere, becoming more alarmed every minute. Presently, in a dreadful tone, he said: “Mildred, you don’t suppose that monk was completely atomized , do you?”

“I’ve heard of things like that happening.”

“That would be terrible.”

Veda picked up her glass, stuck out her little finger, took a fastidious sip. “Well, Father, I don’t really see why you should get so upset about it. It seems to me anybody could see she’s right behind the sofa.”

“For that, you can go to bed.”

Mildred’s eyes blazed as she spoke, and Veda got up very quickly. But Bert paid no attention. He draped the belt over his head again, got down on his hands and knees, said “woof-woof,” and charged around the sofa with the cutout open. He grabbed the ecstatically squealing Ray in his arms, said it was time they both went to bed, and how would they like Daddy to tuck them in? As he raised the child high in the air, Mildred had to turn her head, for it seemed to her that she loved Bert more than she could love any man, so that her heart was a great stifling pain.

But when he came back from the tucking in, put the belt on his trousers again, and poured himself another drink, she was thinking sullenly about the car. It didn’t occur to her that he was the half-dozenth person she had been furious at that day, and that all of them, in one way or another, were but the faces worn by her own desperate situation. She was a little too literal-minded for such analysis: to her it was a simple matter of justice. She was working, he wasn’t. He wasn’t entitled to something that would make things so much easier for her, and that he could get along well enough without. He asked her again how she had been, and she said just fine, but all the time her choler was gaining pressure, and she knew that before long it would have to come out.

The bell rang, and she answered. But when Wally gave her a friendly pat on the bottom she quickly whispered: “Bert’s here.” His face froze for a moment, but then he picked up his cue with surprising convincingness. In a voice that would be heard all over the house, he bellowed: “Why, Mildred! Say I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! Gee you’re looking great! Say, is Bert in?”