"You got to telephone," said Angelica to her mother, "and find out if he still lives there at Buena Vista. If he does, I’ll write once more."
Her mother came in late that afternoon.
"He’s there," she said. "Somebody—one of the servants, I dare say—came to the telephone, and I just said, ‘Is Mr. Vincent Geraldine there?’ And she said, ‘Who is it wants to speak to him?’ And I said, ‘I only wanted to know was he at home.’ ‘Oh, yes!’ she says. ‘He’s at home!’"
Poor woman, lugging her eternal bucket! She looked as if she were being pressed down by giant hands which were forcing her exhausted and gallant body to its knees. There was nothing ready for her now, at the end of her bitter day—nothing in the house which she could cook for supper. Her bed was still unmade, there wasn’t even a decent place for her to sit down, for Angelica occupied the only rocking-chair, drawn up close to the window, where the baby could get what air there was.
Mrs. Kennedy looked at them, and for an instant she hated them both—Angelica who so savagely demanded this unceasing, inhuman toil of her, who took everything and gave nothing, not so much as a loving word, and this wailing, wretched little creature who didn’t even know her.
"It’s too much!" she thought. "I’m getting old."
"Take the baby," said Angelica, "while I write another letter."
"I’ll get some supper first."
"No! I’ve got to write now."
"Then put the kettle on, so’s we can have a cup of tea before long," said her mother, and sat down with the wretched, hot little baby in her arms.