"Yes," said Eddie.
The pall with which Dr. Simons had enshrouded Dot did not lift. The days of Eddie's vacation rode each other into eternity, hot, dry days above which the sua hung with a tawdry brassiness. Its sumptuous golden radiance seemed to have deserted it. It was merely a huge and ugly gilt bauble suspended in space. At night when it fell behind the Palisades with the crass obviousness of an electrical effect, it left behind a stifling, black night.
The Democratic Convention continued. The inability of the Democrats to reach an agreement had become a joke around town. Dot still listened. She had come to respect steadfast Alabama and to enjoy, if not to share, California's excitement over William Gibbs McAdoo. She was a New Yorker. She wanted to see Al Smith get the nomination. Of course Coolidge was going to be President again, but since these people set so much store by picking a loser, she felt that Al Smith certainly ought to be the guy. Listening to the arguments and discussions, even, dispelled the gloom which Dr. Simons had provoked. But after the delegates, the alternates, the visitors, and everybody else had gone for the night to their hotels, rooming-houses, and homes, there were still Dr. Simons' worried eyes staring at her from the darkness. He thought she was going to die. She had seen it in his face.
She had stayed in the house during the terrible heat wave. Eddie had shopped for the meat and groceries. Nobody had come to see them. Edna had taken Floyd to Asbury Park. Sue and Pat were vacationing at Far Rockaway. She had had a card from Maude McLaughlin. Maude was in Atlantic City. Her card had said: "We are having a wonderful time. Wish you were here."
"We" are having a wonderful time. That didn't mean Maude and her mother, for they never went any place together. Did it mean Maude and the golden-haired child?
