both deserted the cause forever. There were a hundred petty bits of gossip, all magnified and sped on their way by friends of Emma who resented the reflected glory in which she bathed herself.
No, something had gone wrong, and the whole affair seemed stale and flat, even the little reception afterward. Emma, of course, stood with the Reverend Castor and Naomi, while members of the congregation filed past. Some congratulated Naomi on her work and wished her fresh successes; one or two asked questions which interested them specially—"was it true that a nigger king had as many as eighty wives?" and, "did they actually eat each other, and if so how was the cooking done?" Emma was always there, beaming with pride, and answering questions before Naomi had time to speak. The Reverend Castor from time to time took Naomi's hand in his and patted it quite publicly, as if she were a child who had recited her first piece without forgetting a line. He kept saying, between fatherly pats, "Yes, the Lord has brought our little girl safely home once more. He has spared her for more work."
But it was a failure: it had none of the zest of those earlier meetings, none of the hysterics and the wild singing of Throw Out the Life Line and The Ninety and Nine, and other hymns that acted as powerful purges to the emotions. The occasion was dampened, too, by the curiosity of various old ladies regarding the absence of Philip; they kept asking question upon question, which Emma, with much practice, learned to parry skilfully. "He didn't feel well enough to make the effort. You see, the fever clings on—that's the worst part of it."
