And now he had disgraced them in a new and shameful way by going to work, not in an office over columns of figures, or even into a polite business such as Uncle Elmer’s pump works, but by plunging straight into the Flats, into the Mills to work with the Hunkies and Dagoes. It was a thing no American had ever done. It was almost as if he had committed theft or murder.
After they had sat thus for more than hour, always beneath the larky gaze of the “late” Mr. Downes, Uncle Elmer rose at last and making himself very thin and stiff as a poker, he said, “Well, Em, I’ve decided one thing. If Philip doesn’t come to his senses within two weeks, I’m through with him forever. You can tell him that—tell him I give him just two weeks, not an hour more—and then I’m through with him. After that I never want to see him again, or hear his name spoken. And when he gets into trouble from his wicked ways, tell him not to come to me for help.”
He expected a response of some sort from his sister, but there was only silence, while she sat grimly regarding the carpet. It seemed that he felt a sudden need for an answer, even though he must strike at her unchivalrously upon a wound which he must have believed cured long ago.
“You see,” he said, “all this comes of making a marriage long ago that I was against. I knew what I was talking about when I warned you against Jason Downes.”
For a moment she did not answer him, but when she spoke it was to upset him, horribly, by one of those caprices to which women are prey. It may have been because of the strain of the day, but it was more probable that there still was left the embers of her old, inexplicable passion for the worthless Mr. Downes, embers fanned into flame by the return of Philip.
She said, “Very well, Elmer. I’ll tell him, but you can consider everything over between you and me, too. I don’t want to see you again. If you can’t speak to Philip, you needn’t speak to me either. I should never have told you. You haven’t done anything at all but make things worse.”
For a time he only stared at her out of round eyes that were like blue marbles. “Well!” he said, coughing. “Well! I’ve done my duty. Don’t say that I haven’t.”
“A lot of good it’s done,” said Emma with bitterness, “a lot of good....”
She seemed, the indomitable Emma, very near to tears. In her corner Naomi snuffled so that they would take some notice of her.
He had meant to make his exit with a cold dignity, and a sense of injury, but Aunt Mabelle stood across his path. Unable any longer to keep up the battle against sleep, she was dozing peacefully in her rocking-chair, unconscious even of the scene that had taken place. She had to be prodded and spoken to sharply, and at last she wakened slowly to profuse apologies, and a walk home with a husband who never addressed her.