The old lady was crying. Dick McCue stared in wonder as Polly Chesbro put her arms around the woman and protected her from the harsh surrounding world.
After a moment Mrs. Goudeket pushed herself away, sniffing. "You have a Kleenex?" she inquired, embarrassed. "I don't know what got into me, Polly. Please, you have to excuse—"
"There's nothing to excuse," said Polly Chesbro. "We're all worn out."
"No, not worn out. Tired, yes. Sick, maybe." Mrs. Goudeket wiped her streaming nose and said dismally, "Ever since Sam died it's slave, slave, slave. You know what Sam said? Every year. 'Next year we go to the Holy Land, why not?' And always I found a reason. So we kept on with the hotel, and it killed him." She patted Polly's arm absently. "Worn out is from a summer with the guests complaining about the food and changing their rooms. From something like this flood you only get tired."
Mrs. Goudeket pulled herself together after a while. Polly left her, and then came back. "Mr. Starkman's wife is with him," she reported. "I suppose I might as well go with you, Mrs. Goudeket—if the offer's still open."
"Open? Of course it's still open. And Mr. Starkman?"
"Much better. They think he'll be all right now." Polly Chesbro's expression was grave and joyous. They'd pulled the old man through; and Bess Starkman had been more than grateful for Polly's help to her husband. Polly said, "Let's get the others."
"Others?" Mrs. Goudeket demanded suspiciously.
"Mr. Groff and Arthur—and Miss Froman."