“What—why, what do you mean, Gertie?” she stammered. “What—I don't think I understood you.”
“What is the matter, Mother?” repeated Gertrude. “Don't you feel well?”
Still Mrs. Dott did not seem to understand. She tried to smile, but the vague uncertainty of the smile caused even Annette, who had been deep in discussion of a plan for securing the vote of a still doubtful member, to cease speaking and regard her guest with surprise.
“What is it, Mother?” urged Gertrude. “You look so strange. Are you ill?”
Serena gazed at her for a moment, rose, stood looking about in the same hesitating, uncertain manner, and then, throwing her arms about her daughter's neck, burst into hysterical sobs.
The alarmed guests clustered about them, asking questions, exclaiming, and offering suggestions.
“What IS it?” demanded Annette. “My DEAR! What IS it?”
Serena, still clinging to Gertrude, continued to sob.
“I—I don't know,” she moaned. “I—I feel so strange. I'm—I'm tired, I guess. I'm—I'm worn out. I—oh, Gertie, take me home. Take me home—please.”
“Yes, yes, Mother, dear. We will go home at once. Come.”