Mrs. Farley had heard him come. She could not keep away. When she entered the room, however, she pretended to be surprised.
"I—oh, I didn't hear you! I came for a dust cloth. Winnie has gone out in the Price's carriage to do some shopping." Mrs. Farley scattered her words before her as a cuttlefish throws out its vaguely disguising substance.
Mr. Farley lifted his head with a heavy, patient smile, but she would not look at him.
"Well, well. I thought that dust cloth was here." She fumbled among the chairs. She was very matter-of-fact and intent. She saw that he was depressed and it made her uneasy.
Mr. Farley could see her profile: her lined, withered lips, her dry, finely wrinkled skin which was a thin film of disguise over her melting flesh. The expression of nervous good humor in her evasive eyes was like a gauze scarf laid over a spectacle of horror.
The two people, afraid of their fear of each other, were like alien creatures haltered with one chain.
"Can I help you?" Mr. Farley asked.
"No. No. Alice hasn't come home, has she?"
"As far as I know, she hasn't. Shall I send her to you when she comes?"
"No. That's all right! That's all right!"