"Yes, she's always there. She doesn't go out much."
There was an awkward pause and Mary, looking away suddenly, said, "Well, good-by, Mrs. Downes. Remember me to Philip."
"Of course," said Emma. "Good-by."
Once after they had parted, Emma looked back to watch Mary. She looked handsome (Emma thought), but sad and tired. Perhaps it was the trouble she had had with Conyngham and Mamie Rhodes . . . carrying on so. Still, she didn't feel sorry for Mary: you couldn't feel sorry for a girl who had such superior airs. She was always stuck-up—Mary Watts; and she'd better not try any of her tricks on Philip.
Her thoughts flew back to Philip. Something had to be done about him. He'd been home for nine months now, and people were beginning to talk; they were even beginning to find out about the Mills. (Why, Mary Watts knew it already.) Being so busy with the new addition to the restaurant and the church and the Union affairs, she hadn't done her best by him these last few weeks; she'd been neglecting her duty in a way. It wasn't too late for him to go back to Megambo—why, he might still become Bishop of East Africa. If he didn't, it would go to that numbskull, Swanson, as first in the field.
And instead of that, he was working like a common Dago in the Mills.
And Naomi, she wasn't any help at all. Funny, too, when she'd always thought Naomi could look out for herself and manage Philip. Instead, she seemed to grow more spineless every day—almost as if she were siding with Philip. She was getting just like Mabelle,
