Martha had come in steady and composed, but wearing the coat of a suit. Emily said, naturally, "Why have you got that on?" Her remark upset Martha entirely. She sobbed again. Emily reproved herself and scolded Martha lightly. Here was their supper. What a lot of dishes! Oh, what a good time they would have, cozily here, together. She called Martha's attention to the pink lamp-shade. "Not bad," she said, "for a hotel room."
But Martha sat like a punished child, not whimpering aloud, but shaking from time to time with stifled sobs. When Emily had insisted, she had ordered coffee and an alligator-pear salad, and it seemed to Emily that the salad was mentioned hurriedly, as an afterthought, to propitiate a mother. When the salad was set before her, she wasn't eating it. She said apologetically that the oil wasn't quite fresh. Emily had offered her some chicken, and insisted on her taking some. And so she did, and swallowed it obediently. And she asked for more coffee. No wonder she was thin, if this was the way she had been eating. Emily was about to refuse her more coffee. But, surely, to-morrow, after a night's sleep, she would be herself again.
"I'm going to stay in bed till noon to-morrow, mammie," she said.
"Aren't we going home to-morrow?"
"Oh no, not to-morrow! Let's wait—a little while—till I—feel rested," she begged. So that was agreed. And there seemed nothing else to say. For Martha sat looking at her mother wistfully, wiping away tears that kept flowing. And Emily refrained from talking because she seemed to be making matters worse. They were perfectly silent while their supper was being carried away. And when the door shut behind the waiter, Martha said—she had been standing looking down out of the window, and she turned about towards Emily:
"Are the bulbs in the window, mammie?"
"What bulbs? At home?"
"Yes. The Poet's narcissi in the hall window."
"Yes. They're almost out—the first ones. I've got a surprise for you, Martie!"
"What?"