"She saw to him for years."
Into that "she" went all Roger's scorn of Hilda Mitchell.
"Then mamma has had her share and I wish to help now."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place? There's no need to beat about the bush. When it comes to a show-down between your people and me, I go."
Anne's eyes narrowed. Her face flamed its ugly, brick-red, "I might just as well have, mightn't I?"
"Certainly." Roger's voice accepted Anne's decision.
There was nothing else to say. Having fought over James Mitchell's body, it seemed grotesque to ask after him. Roger turned again to the winking lights. Anne moved away to the kitchen and lit the gas.
If he followed—there was nothing to talk about. But he could not call "good night" and go off down the back stairs—to Chicago. Roger hesitated. Voices sounded below. Two women were coming up the stairs. He went slowly into the kitchen. United in the need of pretense, he and Anne stood together.
"I can only stay a moment," Charlotte Welles' voice trailed like a soft cloud after the crackling sunshine of Hilda's laugh.
Then Roger was being introduced to a small, pale woman with dark eyes that seemed to see his annoyance at being bothered with this introduction.