“I got in the wrong train,” said Mary. “It’d never have took me nowheres near my cousin in Passaic.”
Edna’s composure was admirable. Said I, when Mary had passed on, “Now what, my dear?”
“You see she is dogging us,” replied Edna. “I’ve not a doubt she knows all about us.”
“I don’t think she’s got a camera,” said I. “Still, they make them very small nowadays.”
“We shall have to go on in the train, and return home from the station beyond,” said Edna.
“Do as you like,” said I. “But as for me, I get off at Passaic and go to see the old folks.”
“Please stop your joking,” said Edna. “If you had any pride you couldn’t joke.”
“I am serious,” said I. “I shall go to see mother and father.”
“No doubt her cousin lives in the same part of the slums,” said Edna. “Oh, it is hideous!”
I don’t know what possessed me—whether a fit of indigestion and obstinacy or a sudden access of sense of decency as I approached my old home. Whatever it was, it moved me to say: “My dear, this nonsense has gone far enough. We will do what we set out to do.”