"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she deplored, before she had fairly crossed the threshold. "I'm afraid it's no use. Grandmother won't have it. I told her about your coming and offering to help, and—she won't have it."
Martha nodded reassuringly. "Well, we won't worry her talkin' about it, an' we won't worry our-selves thinkin' about it. Have you gotta bath-tub handy?"
"Yes, but——"
"Plenty o' towels—bath-towels? The fuzzy-wuzzy, warm kind which they call'm Turkish or Russian, I don't know which, but that gets up a gentle irritation when applied, just like some folks."
The girl nodded.
"Then, the best thing you can do is, get'm ready. It'll keep your mind off'n her not bein' willin'. We want everything laid out handy, so's we won't have to go on a still-hunt the last minute. I got plenty o' water, steamin' hot. If you'll go along up, an' kinda perpare for the worst, I'll folla along presently, an'—we'll have it."
A single shaded lamp left the great bedroom in partial shadow, but as Martha approached the majestic four-poster, about five minutes later, she made out the figure of a diminutive old woman, stretched full length beneath the spare coverings. There could be nothing formidable in such a tiny figure. It was only when Mrs. Slawson looked down upon the face, that she met a pair of eyes that fairly held her at bay.
"I'm Mrs. Sammy Slawson," she announced, a shade less confidently than usual. "I live down the road a ways—superintendent for Mr. Frank Ronald, me an' my husband is."
The little body on the bed might be half dead, but the great eyes were fiercely alive. They measured Mrs. Sammy Slawson from head to foot, with a stare of icy insolence.
Martha did not quail. She met the stare with a perfectly unflinching gaze, then went on talking as she worked, as calmly as if she were not being challenged in mortal combat.