“But Jimmy’s delicate, and I’d rather carry him than have him whine.”
“He’s whining in any case,” said Emma, acidly.
Mabelle was puffing now beneath her burden and the long steps of Emma. But she managed to say, “What I mean about Philip is ... that he’s more masterful now. He’s a man. He’s the kind of a man that women have a right to be afraid of.”
Emma snorted. “Don’t talk such rot, Mabelle. If you’d read less trash.”
“It’s funny about him taking up with the Shanes.”
Naomi had told her, then, about the stable. And Mabelle was a sieve: whatever you told her poured right on through. “He hasn’t taken up with the Shanes. He’s simply using their stable to work in. That’s not the same thing. Why, he barely knows them—except that half-crazy old maid, Irene. And he doesn’t know the others at all.”
“Then it must be that Mary Conyngham. She’s friends with them.”
“Mary Conyngham!” repeated Emma. “Mary Conyngham! Why, he hasn’t seen her in years!” But the shock of the name turned her suddenly thoughtful, so that she walked at a slower pace, mercifully for Mabelle.
“Well, he might have seen her,” persisted Mabelle. “She’s mixed up with Irene Shane’s school for the Dagoes and Hunkies. They all belong to the same crowd ... all thinking they can make something out of a lot of bums.” For a moment she was so completely winded that she could not speak. When she recovered her breath, she said, “I remembered the other night that they’d been sweet on each other once.”
Still Emma walked furiously in silence, and presently Mabelle said, “Of course, I didn’t say anything about her to Naomi. She might be upset just now.”