She studied the room wistfully. "I'd forgotten the dining room was so large," she remarked. She seemed reluctant to leave the candle-light when supper was over. So the three women sat on; Martha sat with her elbows on the table, dreaming towards the little flames, as she had always done, but taking her part in the conversation thoughtfully. Her one thought seemed to be for Miss Curtis's enjoyment.
Miss Curtis was interested in Mrs. Benton, and Martha rehearsed the history of the swimming park, with now and then a twinkling comment, not spontaneous, a remark calculated to entertain her guest, who questioned her. Emily occasionally took her eyes from Martha's face long enough to glance at Miss Curtis. Even dusk and twilight failed to make her interesting. She looked now only like complete fag. But Martha was mysterious, tantalizing to maternal interest. She was thin, still. She was hushed; but she was steady. She was safe. Miss Curtis wasn't sitting apprehensively waiting for outbursts of bitterness.
Martha had planned to drive Miss Curtis and her mother on Saturday some distance down the river, and have a picnic. The day was fine enough, but Miss Curtis found herself extremely tired from her ride of the day before; besides, as she said, the garden itself was a picnic for her; she would be content to stay there for months. Martha had come downstairs that morning dressed for the day, as soon as Bob had left the house, and had proceeded to the kitchen, where she had got a tray daintily ready for her guest; and she had carried it up to her as if she had always been in the habit of preparing early breakfast for people. Then she had carried an easy chair and cushions and rugs out almost to the river; and in the sun she had prepared a sleeping-place for their morning, where they could all three watch the orioles in the apple trees, and Martha could lie about on the grass, now and then exerting herself to dig up a dandelion. In the afternoon Miss Curtis, with a book, slept there, while Martha, putting in the later "glads" with her mother, watched the untidy head nodding towards rest with obvious satisfaction. When she woke, after a few minutes, she recalled her duty.
"Really, I ought to 'phone Mrs. Bissel that I'm here," she told Martha.
But Martha said: "We should worry. You can call her up—next week—or the next time we're down."
Emily heard that with satisfaction. She had known all the day that Martha avoided even the front garden, where the neighbors would the more surely learn of her return. It was lucky, the way everyone happened to be too busy to "run in" that Saturday or Sunday.
When the unworthy red car drove away on Sunday afternoon, both its passengers declared it had been a most successful week-end. Emily understood why Martha could say that truthfully. She had wanted Miss Curtis to enjoy it, and Miss Curtis had enjoyed it, and that was enough justification for it. It had been, in a way, a triumph for the house. Martha had said she never wanted to see it again as long as she lived, and she had seen it, not unhappily. She had even acknowledged its dearness, she had stayed in the house with her father, and she must have seen that when they both tried to, they could get along without disagreement. She had promised, moreover, chuckling over her success, to bring Miss Curtis back just as soon as possible. Miss Curtis had asked her to, cunningly. For Emily had taken Miss Curtis aside, and begged her, some way, to get Martha out again soon for a week-end. Martha needed the change so much, Emily had pleaded. Miss Curtis had agreed to that.
"And she won't leave that work of hers for a day, as you know, unless she thinks she's doing you a great favor," Emily had insisted.
Miss Curtis was eager to do Mrs. Kenworthy whatever favor she could.
"Only get Martha to bring you down; bring her home some way!" Emily had pleaded, not adding, "That's more than I can do!"