Mrs. Palmer sat erect, stiff and thin. The side of her face was toward Mrs. Endey. She never moved the fraction of an inch, but watched her hostilely out of the corner of her eye, like a hen on the defensive.
It was Mrs. Endey who finally renewed hostilities. “Emarine,” she said, sternly, “what are you a-doin’? Shortenin’ your biscuits with lard?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Endey sniffed contemptuously. “They won’t be fit to eat! You feathered your nest, didn’t you? Fer mercy’s sake! Can’t you buy butter to shorten your biscuits with? You’ll be makin’ patata soup next!”
Then Mrs. Palmer stood up. There was a red spot on each cheek.
“Mis’ Endey,” she said, “if yuh don’t like the ’comadations in this house, won’t you be so good ’s to go where they’re better? I must say I never wear underclo’s made out o’ unbleached muslin in my life! The hull town’s see ’em on your clo’s line, an’ tee-hee about it behind your back. I notice your daughter was mighty ready to git in here an’ shorten biscuits with lard, an’ use patched table-cloths, an’—”
“Oh, mother!”
It was her son’s voice. He stood in the door. His face was white and anxious. He looked at the two women; then his eyes turned with a terrified entreaty to Emarine’s face. It was hard as flint.
“It’s time you come,” she said, briefly. “Your mother just ordered my mother out o’ doors. Whose house is this?”
He was silent.