And there Emily stopped by the table, without unloading her hands. Bob stopped behind her. They just stood looking for a critical second—looking at Martha and "that man," who were stopping their dance, drawing away from each other, returning their gaze.
"You're late," said Martha, quite naturally, unperturbed.
The man spoke to them. Emily murmured something. She didn't know what to say. Martha went to the victrola and stood there, turning it off. Bob said nothing. Richard Quin looked at Martha inquiringly.
"It's late," he said. "Really, I'd better be going."
Bob took a step towards the table and divested himself of three large bottles of choice olives and a long sprayer for roses. He strode towards the man.
"Yes, you'd better be going," he said. "If you're wise, you'll be staying away." He stood glaring at him, threateningly.
Emily came and stood close to Bob. And Martha came towards "that man," with her head held high. She spoke to him with the most gentle sweetness, looking straight at her father.
"You didn't have a hat, did you?" she asked him. "It was so nice of you to think of coming in." She was going with him towards the door. She went with him into the hall. "Good night," they heard her say. "Good night." She stood in the hall after the door had shut behind the man. She waited there. Emily called her. And when she came into the light from the darkness of the hall, it was plain that for once in his life Bob Kenworthy had "got a rise" out of Martha. She came straight at him. She was white with anger.
"How dare you do such a thing! How dare you speak to my friends that way!" Emily had never seen her so furious.
"Martha!" she cried, warningly.