even then she had been only brushed by a consciousness of some vast and overwhelming personal force. Life, even with its pain, seemed a satisfactory affair: there was always so much to be done, and it wasn't God that Philip needed but pies and socks and a woman who believed in him.
She knew every day whether he was better or worse and she found herself, for the first time in all her life, praying to God to spare his life. She didn't know whether there was a God or whether He would listen to one who only petitioned when she was in need, but she prayed none the less, believing that if there was any God, He would understand why it was she turned to Him. If He did not understand, she told herself rebelliously, then He was not worthy of existing as God.
She did not go to the slate-colored house, though she did ask for news on one occasion when she met Emma in the street. She understood that Emma had resented her friendship for Philip, even when they were children, and so avoided seeming to show any great interest. But she heard, nevertheless, sometimes from Krylenko who had even gone to the door to inquire, and sometimes from the doctor, but most of the time it was McTavish who kept her informed.
McTavish was the only person whom she suspected of guessing her secret.
After she had stopped day after day at his undertaking-parlors, he looked at her sharply one day out of his humorous little blue eyes, and said, "If Philip gets better, we've got to help him." Then he hesitated for a moment and added, "Those two women are very bad for him."
He was, she understood, feeling his way. When she
