“You’re as cool looking as the dawn,” she said to her. “Are you tired, dear?”
“Not a bit.”
“There’s a little droop to your eyes, dear. I thought maybe it was bad news now.”
Freda had a sudden impulse to confidence, a leap of the mind towards it. But she drew back.
“No—not bad news at all.”
“Your mother and father’s well?”
“My mother is coming to see me for a few days, I think. She’s going to Chicago for the Convention for the clubs and she’ll come back this way to see me.”
“Now, isn’t that the blessing for you,” said Mrs. Nesbitt rejoicingly.
The family streamed in, the boys from their work and the twins from school. Last came Mr. Nesbitt, his tin lunch pail in his hand, his feet dragging with weariness. They talked of the heat, all of them, making it even more oppressive than it was by their inability to escape the thought of it. And Mrs. Nesbitt who knew nothing of salads and iced tea, or such hot weather reliefs stirred the flour for her gravy and set the steaming pot roast before her husband. They ate heavily. Freda tried to keep her mind on what she was doing. She talked to the boys and let Mrs. Nesbitt press more food on her unwilling appetite. It was very unwilling. She did not want to eat. She wanted to sit down and close her eyes and forget food and heat and everything else—except Gregory.
Vaguely she was aware of Mr. Nesbitt talking.