Mrs. Bridge Read Online Free Page A

in the country, India,” Van Metre said, and cleared his throat. Then he turned around in his chair and again frowned at the kitchen. “I am commencing to wonder if we have a waiter this evening,”
    “We’re certainly in no hurry,” said Mrs. Bridge.
    Van Metre snapped his fingers, at which the father and son looked across the room.
    “Don’t we have any service?’ Van Metre called with a note of joviality.
    The father spoke to his son, who got up and walked to the swinging doors, pushed halfway through, and apparently spoke to someone in the kitchen. Presently a Filipino waiter came out with a napkin folded over one arm.
    “What do you recommend this evening?‘ Van Metre asked him.
    The waiter said the roast beef was especially nice.
    “How does that sound? India? Walter? Susan? Roast beef, everyone?”
    “Grand,” said Mrs. Bridge.
    “Four roast beeves/’ said Van Metre, and chuckled. “It sounds as though I’m ordering four beeves. Entire animals.” He took a sip of water, removed his glasses, and while examining them against the light he said, “Possibly I have told you of my experience in Illinois last summer on the way home from my annual fishing trip.”
    “Why, no, I don’t believe you have,” Mrs. Bridge said attentively. “What happened?”
    “I went fishing with Andrew Stoner,” he said, and lifted his bushy white eyebrows in what appeared to be an inquiring manner.
    Mrs. Bridge thought quickly. “Stoner Dry Goods?”
    “No, no,” he chuckled. “I should say not! Stoner Dry Goods, my Lord, no!” He continued to chuckle while he put on his glasses, and Mrs. Bridge noticed with a slight feeling of dis-comfort that the hair of his eyebrows actually touched his glasses.
    “I’ve met that fellow/’ he was saying. “No, India, not Stoner Dry Goods, not by a damn sight, no sir. Andrew Stoner, not John Stoner. My man is in the winter-wheat business. In fact, I expect you’ve met him.”
    “A rather short man with quite an attractive wife?”
    “You’re probably thinking of Dr. Max Hamm. He wears gold-rimmed glasses and speaks with a German accent.”
    “Oh well, I don’t believe I know the Stoners.”
    “I’m sure you must have met him somewhere.”
    “Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m terrible about names.”
    “However, you may not have met him/’ Van Metre thoughtfully rubbed his chin and took another sip of water. “I believe, now that I think of it, Andrew’s wife died before you moved into the neighborhood. Andrew went away for several years.” He turned the water pitcher around; apparently he was inspecting the design etched into it. “At any rate, we were returning from our annual fishing expedition when we had occasion to put up for the night at a small hotel in Illinois. It was in the town of Gilman, as I recall. Not too far from Peoria.” His expression was Inquiring again.
    “I don’t believe IVe ever been there. It must be nice.”
    Van Metre put the napkin to his mouth and coughed. Then he continued. “Well, India, I shouldn’t care to live there. However, Andrew and I did stop there overnight, although at this moment I am unable to recall our reasoning. It was a mistake, you may be sure of that.”
    “Sounds dreadful.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t say it was quite that bad.”
    “I didn’t mean that exactly, it’s just that those little farming towns can be awfully depressing.”
    “I wouldn’t call Gilman a farming town.”
    “Oh, I didn’t mean that it was.”
    “It’s quite a little city. Good bit of industry there. In fact, Gilman may have quite a future.”
    “Is that so? I suppose it is altogether different than I imagine.”
    Wilhelm Van Metre stared at the tablecloth for a while, as though something had annoyed him.
    “We stopped there overnight. We got a room in the hotel, not a bad room, though small, and as we were walking downstairs for supper Andrew said, ‘Wilhelm, how about a drink?’ Well, India and Walter, I said, ‘That sounds like