“Nevertheless, as a friend I wouldn’t advise you to take her up—to—er—hobnob with her.” Mrs. Pantin did not like the word, but the occasion required vigorous language.
“I’m the best judge of that, Prissy.” Her hands were icy.
“When you came to town a stranger I tried to guide you in social matters,” Mrs. Pantin reminded her. “I told you whose call to return and whose not to—you found my judgment good, didn’t you?”
“You’ve been more than kind,” Mrs. Toomey murmured miserably, and added, “I’m so sorry for her.”
“We all are that, Delia, but nevertheless I think you will do well to follow my suggestion in this matter.”
Mrs. Toomey recognized the veiled threat instantly. It conveyed to her social ostracism—not being asked to serve on church committees—omitted when invitations for teas were being issued—cold-shouldered out of the Y.A.K. Society, which met monthly for purposes of mutual improvement—of being blackballed, perhaps, when she would become a Maccabee! She repressed a shudder; her work swam before her downcast eyes and she drew up the darn on the stocking she was repairing until it looked like a wen. The ordeal was worse than she had imagined it.
And how she hated Priscilla Pantin!
Always Mrs. Toomey had had a quaint conceit that if she listened attentively she would be able to hear Priscilla’s heart jingling in her body—rattling like a bit of ice in a tin bucket. Now the woman’s mean, chaste little soul laid bare before her filled Delia Toomey with a dumb fury.
Mrs. Pantin waited patiently for her answer, though the experience was a new one. Usually she had only to reach for the whip when her satellites mutinied; almost never was it necessary to crack it.
While Mrs. Toomey hesitated Mrs. Pantin folded her work—this, too, was significant.