"Let's not talk about it," she answered.
There was an hour to wait for lunch. Only once did she have that feeling of panic. Her strength almost failed her when she picked up the morning paper defensively and saw the advertisements of "white sales." Baby clothes were illustrated there. She threw the paper hastily down. She mustn't think of such a child in her house, playing in her willow tree. She would hate that child; she wanted Martha to hate it. Yet they would have to make some sort of hateful preparations for it.
After a while they rose and went down into the restaurant, and found a place among untrapped, unmaddened men and women, who didn't look as if they felt their lives reeling through destruction. Mother and daughter said but little. If anyone near had looked at them attentively, he would have thought, probably, of two women who looked rather bored with life and in need of diversion.
When the coffee came, Martha, who had chosen to sit with her back to the room, was leaning on the table, her hand over her eyes. She had been looking in grim dejection at her mother's hands. She stirred, and said, nervously:
"Nobody would ever suspect you of anything, mother."
"Let's not talk about it," Emily almost whispered.
"I mean—I mean—I don't suppose you will have to take your gloves off, will you?"
"Where?"
"I mean—in the doctor's office." She looked around her slyly to see if she might be overheard.
"No, I don't suppose so." Emily thought best not to question her.