and forgot all about her, as far as I can make out. Lottie goes in for fads.⦠We have an arrangement, by the way. I should have warned you. Sometimes they need some little something they havenât got in the shop, and then they come over here and pick it up if they can find it in my jungle. And now and then, if something theyâve bought doesnât seem to move, they ask me to put it here and sell it to my clientele if I can. Itâs a different set, you see; quite often I have luck like that. Just little things. I wouldnât undertake a piano, even an upright.â
Her own joke pleased her; she chuckled heartily as she went back to the basement.
Left to herself, Francie continued thinking about the bad tempered Chadbourne Fredericks. It was not strange that they had never met at dancing school or anywhere when she herself was living in Jefferson, because the other girl obviously belonged to that small group of nonresidents who used the town merely as a place to send things to or spend Christmas and Thanksgiving in; they were people who be longed to Jefferson because their parents had lived there and their business interests were local. Every town has a few of these. Francieâs own life might have approximated Chadbourneâs, she reflected, if her mother had lived and if Pop had not gone broke. She wouldnât have been subjected to such a lot of maternal whims, of course, or swapped around from school to convent to institute, but she wouldnât have grown up in Jefferson without interruption. As it was, for years she had done so. Sheâd been Aunt Norahâs little girl. And here she was, working in the Birthday Box, being snooted by red-haired Chadbourne Fredericks.â¦
âWhat am I so depressed about?â she suddenly asked herself angrily. A thought sheâd been hiding popped upâGlenn hadnât written since heâd gone back to San Francisco. But then they never wrote much, she argued with herself. She would not be depressed: she would not start repining. As proof of this, she set to work on the window, dusting all the objects and removing a few that seemed to her more cluttery than attention-getting. Little by little by little, she hoped to reform Mrs. Ryanâs arrangements.
It was a deep window and she soon found that she couldnât reach the front from where she stood leaning over. She couldnât come within six inches of that elephant-in-bed card, and she particularly wanted to put it in, out of sight. It had been there a long time, and it looked dusty and fly-specked. If Mrs . Ryan insisted on having a whimsical greeting card in her window, she might at least have a fresh one, Francie thought.
She kicked off her heels, climbed bodily into the window, and started briskly to work. After all, it was closing time; why shouldnât she?
A car drove up and slowed down in front of the Birthday Box. Francie stopped dusting to look up; who was coming in at this late hour? It was a long, low, blue car of rakish cut, not the sort that usually brought customers to the Box, and a moment later Francie realized it wasnât there because of the Box anyway. The young man who was driving it climbed out and walked past her without a glance, over toward Fredericks & Worpels.
He was a beautiful young man. He had a profile like Marlon Brandoâs, and good, careless clothes. He didnât look a bit like Jefferson; not that Jeffersonâs young men were worse than others, but they didnât dress like that, and they didnât grow their hair that long. Francie stared without realizing that she could be seen in the window as clearly as any of Mrs. Ryanâs objets dâart .
However, the young man seemed unaware of the attention he was getting from this unlikely vantage point. He was looking at the shop next door, smiling at somebody behind the door there. Francie saw him enter, and then she came to herself and set to work again, squatting down on her
Her own joke pleased her; she chuckled heartily as she went back to the basement.
Left to herself, Francie continued thinking about the bad tempered Chadbourne Fredericks. It was not strange that they had never met at dancing school or anywhere when she herself was living in Jefferson, because the other girl obviously belonged to that small group of nonresidents who used the town merely as a place to send things to or spend Christmas and Thanksgiving in; they were people who be longed to Jefferson because their parents had lived there and their business interests were local. Every town has a few of these. Francieâs own life might have approximated Chadbourneâs, she reflected, if her mother had lived and if Pop had not gone broke. She wouldnât have been subjected to such a lot of maternal whims, of course, or swapped around from school to convent to institute, but she wouldnât have grown up in Jefferson without interruption. As it was, for years she had done so. Sheâd been Aunt Norahâs little girl. And here she was, working in the Birthday Box, being snooted by red-haired Chadbourne Fredericks.â¦
âWhat am I so depressed about?â she suddenly asked herself angrily. A thought sheâd been hiding popped upâGlenn hadnât written since heâd gone back to San Francisco. But then they never wrote much, she argued with herself. She would not be depressed: she would not start repining. As proof of this, she set to work on the window, dusting all the objects and removing a few that seemed to her more cluttery than attention-getting. Little by little by little, she hoped to reform Mrs. Ryanâs arrangements.
It was a deep window and she soon found that she couldnât reach the front from where she stood leaning over. She couldnât come within six inches of that elephant-in-bed card, and she particularly wanted to put it in, out of sight. It had been there a long time, and it looked dusty and fly-specked. If Mrs . Ryan insisted on having a whimsical greeting card in her window, she might at least have a fresh one, Francie thought.
She kicked off her heels, climbed bodily into the window, and started briskly to work. After all, it was closing time; why shouldnât she?
A car drove up and slowed down in front of the Birthday Box. Francie stopped dusting to look up; who was coming in at this late hour? It was a long, low, blue car of rakish cut, not the sort that usually brought customers to the Box, and a moment later Francie realized it wasnât there because of the Box anyway. The young man who was driving it climbed out and walked past her without a glance, over toward Fredericks & Worpels.
He was a beautiful young man. He had a profile like Marlon Brandoâs, and good, careless clothes. He didnât look a bit like Jefferson; not that Jeffersonâs young men were worse than others, but they didnât dress like that, and they didnât grow their hair that long. Francie stared without realizing that she could be seen in the window as clearly as any of Mrs. Ryanâs objets dâart .
However, the young man seemed unaware of the attention he was getting from this unlikely vantage point. He was looking at the shop next door, smiling at somebody behind the door there. Francie saw him enter, and then she came to herself and set to work again, squatting down on her
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