"Ho!" cried an exuberant voice in surprise. "Wait a moment!"
Some one was running down the stairs to show her the way up. Emily was conscious of a richly carpeted hall, a large gay room, a stunning seal-brown frock on a woman as large as herself, with a fine head, a high color, a heart-warming sort of person of great vitality.
"Mrs. Kenworthy! Do come in! I know all about you. Sit down. I'm Isobel Stevenson. No, Martha isn't here just now; I'll 'phone her. She's getting dinner at Miss Curtis's. I am glad to see you; I've been curious about you, after all I've heard."
She picked up the 'phone from a desk in the room, asked for the number without looking it up, and went on talking all the time she waited for her connection.
"Jennie Curtis told me all about you, of course, about your husband and the garden. I'd like to take her home for week-ends myself, but it's too far. She doesn't stand driving well.—Hello, Martha! Your mother's here.... I said your mother.... Why didn't you tell me she was coming? ... Never mind, drop it. Come on over.... Well, come and have supper with me. Tell Jennie to come.... Of course she'll come. Tell her I said she was to come.... Leave a note for her, then.... Oh, put them in water and let them stand till to-morrow; or bring them along and cook them here.... She told me Martha bought that car just to take her out home with. That's some girl of yours, Mrs. Kenworthy. Of course, Jennie Curtis is pure gold, but you don't often get a girl of Martha's age who knows gold when she sees it. She came over the other day and asked me to take Martha in till my friend comes back." She had seated herself near Emily, who had not had a chance to say one word. She pointed now with a large gesture at the pictures on the walls, the interesting-looking things which Emily had only vaguely realized were about her. "I live here with a friend who travels a great deal. All these things are hers, really. So I took her in, just to please Jennie. And I must say I like her. She's an awfully nice girl for her age. I find her companionable. But tell me, Mrs. Kenworthy—there isn't much time; she'll be here in a minute—hasn't she had some sort of affair, some disappointment, or something?"
The fact that she paused for an answer was as surprising as the question she had asked, professionally, as it were. Her praise of Martha, her vigor, the richness of the setting, her friendliness, all of it was so contrary to Emily's mood and expectations that she was overwhelmed. She felt tears coming into her eyes.
"Oh yes!" she cried. "And you're a doctor. Do something for her. She's been through—terrible things; she's so young!"
"I knew it!" said the doctor, complacently. "I knew it the first time I really talked to her. But she's getting over it; she don't need any help; she's got stuff in her. Don't you worry."
"No," murmured Emily, "I'm not worried, of course. I—I'm tired, I guess. I—can't—I—may I go and wash my face? I don't know what made me—do this."
Emily was shown into Martha's bedroom. A white-tiled bath opened off it. No comfort was lacking in that bedroom, which seemed to have aspired originally to feminine austerity. Martha's familiar things made it homelike. And in that room Martha found her mother, before Emily had had time to powder her nose.