And then, abruptly, her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of some one speaking to her.
"How do you do, Mrs. Downes?" Looking up, she saw it was Mary Watts . . . now Mary Conyngham . . . looking pale and rather handsome in her widow's clothes.
"Why, Mary Watts, I haven't seen you in ever so long."
There was a certain gush in Emma's manner that was too violent. The cordiality of Mary Watts had, too, the note of one who disliked the object of her politeness. (Emma thought, "She usually pretends not to see me. She's only stopped me because she wants to ask about Philip.")
"I've been away," said Mary; "I had the children in the South. That's why you haven't seen me."
"Yes, now that you speak of it, I do remember reading it in the paper."
And Mary, who never possessed any subtlety, went straight to the point. "I hear," she said, "that Philip has come home."
"Yes, he's been home for some time."
"Is it true that he's working in the Mills . . . as a day laborer?"
("What business is it of yours?" thought Emma.)
"Yes, it's a notion he had. I think he wants to find out what it's like. He thinks a missionary ought to know about such things."
"I suppose he'll be going back to Africa soon?"
"Oh, yes. I think he's impatient to be back."
"His wife's here, too?"
"Yes, she's here."
"I've never met her. Perhaps I'd better call."
