Has he been to Wanamaker's?"
I thought I should throw a fit when Peter told me that!
I know, of course, that the family pity Peter for living in a house
that's all at sixes and sevens, and for not having everything the way
he has been used to having it; and I know they think I keep him from
going to see them all at home, when the truth is--although, as usual, I
can't say it--sometimes I absolutely have to HOUND him to go there;
though, of course, he's awfully fond of them all, and his mother
especially; but he gets dreadfully lazy, and says they're his own
people, anyway, and he can do as he pleases about it. It's their own
fault, because they've always spoiled him. And if they only knew how he
hates just that way of living he's been always used to, with its
little, petty cast-iron rules and regulations, and the stupid family
meals, where everybody is expected to be on time to the minute! My
father-in-law pulls out his chair at the dinner-table exactly as the
clock is striking one, and if any member of the family is a fraction
late all the rest are solemn and strained and nervous until the culprit
appears. Peter says the way he used to suffer--he was NEVER on time.
The menu for each day of the week is as fixed as fate, no matter what
the season of the year: hot roast beef, Sunday; cold roast beef,
Monday; beef-steak, Tuesday; roast mutton, Wednesday; mutton pot-pie,
Thursday; corned beef, Friday; and beef-steak again on Saturday.
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