But when they sat in the darkest corner of a crowded, noisy restaurant, she only pretended to be eating. She scarcely spoke, and when she did her voice was—strange, so that Emily sat thoughtfully watching her.
"Can you go and get the reservations after we've finished?"
"Yes, I can. Aren't you coming with me?"
"I want to go out for just a thing or two, mammie. But look here, can't you just—pay part of the tickets? You don't have to pay it all to-day, do you?"
"Why? Why not?"
"I mean—if I don't feel well enough to go to-morrow."
"This is no place to begin to catechise her," Emily thought, "but I've got to find out what's the trouble with her, some way, before long."
"I don't know whether they will reserve them that way or not. I'll ask, if you want me to."
"I think it would be—a good plan."
Martha was sitting with her back to the room, her elbow on the table, and her head on her hand—not in a correct way, nor a graceful way. Emily looked at her. After all, look how other people sat—well-dressed people, but not nice-looking people. Horrid-looking girls, some of these were. Who, she wondered, were they? If Martha preferred not to talk, there was much for a small-town woman to be looking about at, in the room: smart clothes, painted faces. It was absolutely a thrill to see a woman so shamelessly vicious-looking, with some sort of green paint to make shadows under her eyes. Emily's unsophisticated glance was intent upon the person. The waiter was putting her parfait before her, when a bomb, thrown from Martha's colorless lips, made her almost jump.