she gazed at me with watering eyes, and in perplexity stroked her disordered hair with a floury hand. Her face was sallow with heat, and beads of perspiration glittered in the deep, dragging line between her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. She said:
"He's home?"
I nodded.
She pulled me inside and slammed the door.
"Is he well?" she asked.
"Quite," I answered.
Her tense stare relaxed. She rubbed her hands on her overall and said:
"You'll excuse me. It's the girl's day out. If you'll step into the parlor—"
So in her parlor I sat and told her how it was with Chris and how greatly he desired to see her. And as I spoke of his longing I turned my eyes away from her, because she was sitting on a sofa, upholstered in velveteen of a sickish green,
