She placed two rolls in the warming oven and broke three eggs into a bowl.
“Abram and I are so fond of omelette,” she said, as the egg-beater whirred. “Tell me,” she beamed brightly upon Mrs. Toomey, “what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Priscilla—Prissy—” Mrs. Toomey caught her breath—“I’ve been miserable—and that’s the truth!”
“Why, my dear!” The egg-beater stopped. “Aren’t you well? No wonder—I’m as nervous as a witch myself.” The egg-beater whirred again encouragingly. “You must use your will power—you mustn’t allow yourself to be affected by these external things.”
“It’s not the wind.” Mrs. Toomey’s eyes were swimming now. “I’m worried half to death.”
Mrs. Pantin had not lived twelve years with Abram in vain. A look of suspicion crossed her face, and there was a little less solicitude in her voice as she inquired:
“Is it anything in particular? Bad news from home?”
“It’s money!” Mrs. Toomey blurted out. “We’re dreadfully hard up. I came to see if we could get a loan.”
The egg-beater went on, but the milk of human kindness which, presumably, flowed in Mrs. Pantin’s breast stopped—congealed—froze up tight. Her blue eyes, whose vividness was accentuated as usual by the robin’s egg blue dress she wore, had the warm genial glow radiating from a polar berg. It was, however, only a moment before she recovered herself and was able to say with sweet earnestness:
“I haven’t anything to do with that, my dear. You’ll have to see Mr. Pantin.”