Edna placed a tender hand over the scalded, listless one that rested on the oilcloth. Joan, abandoning her determination to air her personal grievances at the first available instant, said suddenly:
"Never mind, ma. It ain't like he was a drinking man."
The vacant eyes in the faded face of the mother were fathoming distances remote from the four walls of the slatternly room. Her thin and colourless lips trembled slightly; little more than a whisper escaped them:
"Sometimes I wish he was—wish he had been. It'd 've been easier to stand—all this." A faltering gesture indicated vaguely the misery of their environment.
Edna continued to pet the unresponsive hand.
"Don't, mother!" she pleaded.
The woman stirred, withdrew her hand, and slowly got up.
"Come on, Edna. Le's get done with them dishes."
With eyes hard and calculating, Joan watched the two drift into the kitchen. Their wretched state touched her less than the fact that she must continue forever to share it, or else try to better it in open defiance of her father's prejudices.
"Something's got to be done for this family," she grumbled—"and I don't see anybody even thinking of doing anything but me!"