It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He felt that if he went up now he would see Minnie in her horrible grey wrapper, with the baby in her arms, rocking away, just in the same way, with the gas turned low and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the baby was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, sighing, but smiling too, and trail out into the kitchen, to look in the ice chest for something to eat. And then to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip.... He could not repress a groan.
“Oh, Minnie!” he whispered.
Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with contempt. She knew he wasn’t thinking of the children at all.
“Chris!” she said, in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell her—that we’re married!”
He nodded assent.
They remained at the table, in silence. There was nothing to do, nothing to say, but to wait for Minnie’s next move.
Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and holding Sandra by the hand, all of them dressed for the street. Minnie’s eyes were red; evidently she had been crying up there.
“Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m sorry about all this.... But I had to do it, really, for Sandra’s sake. And I did make you happy, and comfortable, didn’t I?”