in curl-papers, lay concealed beneath a kind of mob-cap of bright green satin, trimmed with soiled lace. It was impossible to avoid her.
"Naomi," said Emma, in a voice of acid, "this is Mr. Slade—Moses, my daughter-in-law, Naomi."
Naomi said, "Pleased to meet you." Moses Slade bowed, went through the door, and the meeting was over.
When the door closed, Emma stood for a moment with the knob in her hand. Naomi was watching her with a look of immense interest and curiosity strangely like the look that came so often into the eyes of Mabelle when curiosity about the subjects of love and childbirth became too strong for her feeble control.
"Is that Mr. Slade . . . the Congressman?" asked Naomi.
"Yes, it is." There was something in Naomi's look that maddened her, something that was questioning, shameless, offensive, and even accusing.
"What made him come to see us?"
Emma controlled herself. She felt lately that it was all she could bear always to have Naomi in the house.
"He came to ask about Philip."
"I didn't know that he knew Philip."
"He didn't, but he's an old friend of mine." The lie slipped easily from her tongue.
"Philip's better," Naomi answered. "He opened his eyes and looked at me. I think he knew me."
"Did he speak?"
"No, he just closed them again without saying anything."
Emma moved away from the door as Naomi turned
