Emma, in her turn, sighed and murmured a few words of condolence. She knew what it was to be alone in the world. Hadn't she been alone for more than twenty years? Ever since Mr. Downes, going to China to make a fortune for himself and his son, had been killed there. They hadn't even found his body, so that she hadn't even the consolation of visiting his grave. That, of course, was a great deal. Congressman Slade ought to be thankful that he had his wife's grave. It helped. In a way, it made the thing definite. It was not like the torturing hope in which she had lived for twenty years. . . . Yes, more than twenty years, hoping all the while that he might not be really dead. Oh, she understood. She sympathized.
"But as to the housekeeper, Mr. Slade, don't let that trouble you. Come and take your meals at the restaurant. I'd be delighted to have you. It would be an honor to have you eat there."
"I'll take up your offer," he said, slapping his knee almost jovially. "I've heard how excellent it is. But, of course, I'll pay for it. I couldn't think of it otherwise."
For a moment, there appeared in the manner of Emma the faintest hint of an ancient coquetry, long forgotten and grown a little stale. It was a mere shadow, something that lurked in the suspicious bobbing of the black ostrich plumes in her hat.
"Oh, don't think of that," she said. "It would be a pleasure—an honor."
She rose and shook his hand. "Good-by, Mr. Slade, and thank you for letting me waste so much of your time."
