Emily was on the point of saying, "You might at least have inquired." But Martha went on:
"I'm so tired, mammie, I just had to have a room for myself. I could sleep a week straight off."
"Well," said Emily, doubtfully. She turned on the light. Martha hadn't even taken her little hat off. It was crushed down over an ear. Her nose was red. She looked like a wreck. She didn't like her mother's scrutiny.
"Turn off that light," she pleaded.
Emily turned it off.
"Get up and wash your face," she said.
But Martha cried, "Oh, mammie, honestly, I never meant—to hurt you!" and threw herself down, sobbing, her face buried in her hands.
Emily remembered Eve's letter, and grew more pitiful. "I never would have thought this would prey on her mind so much," she thought. "How am I going to make Bob understand this? I wish he could hear her now." It was very bad for her to cry so deeply, however.
"Where is your room, Martha? I want to see it. Brace up."
"I'll show it to you—after a while." She still was sobbing aloud. She seemed hysterical.