"You're all right, mamma?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Samstag, and sat down on a divan, its naked greenness relieved by a thrown scarf of black velvet stenciled in gold.
"You shouldn't have remained down so long if your head is hurting," said her daughter, and quite casually took up her mother's beaded hand bag where it had fallen in her lap, but her fingers feeling lightly and furtively as if for the shape of its contents.
"Stop that," said Mrs. Samstag, jerking it back, a dull anger in her voice.
"Come to bed, mamma. If you're in for neuralgia, I'll fix the electric pad."
Suddenly Mrs. Samstag shot out her arm, rather slim-looking in the invariable long sleeve she affected, drawing Alma back toward her by the ribbon sash of her pretty chiffon frock.
"Alma, be good to mamma to-night! Sweetheart—be good to her."
The quick suspecting fear that had motivated Miss Samstag's groping along the beaded hand bag shot out again in her manner.
"Mamma—you haven't—?"
"No, no! Don't nag me. It's something else, Alma. Something mamma is very happy about."