Martha stuffed it hastily down the square neck of her frock, for safety.
"It's my letter." She faced him, and not one of her scornful eyelashes fluttered at all, though he was glaring at her as if he would like to tear her into bits.
"So this is what you fixed up Friday night, with the blinds down. The God-damned scoundrel! You think you're going to marry him when he's got one wife?"
"I'm not discussing it with you. I won't have him called names."
Emily sobbed, "Bob!" entreatingly.
He turned sharply round and looked at her. And then he turned passionately towards Martha.
"Look at there!" he cried, with a gesture. "Look at your mother! You can't make her cry!" He was helpless. He had to entreat his child. "You can't do this, Martha!"
Martha had gone to her mother while Bob was speaking. She had thrown herself down against her, caressingly, trying to creep into her arms. But Emily's head was buried in her hands. She would not let her tear-stained face be uncovered.
"I don't want her to cry! I wouldn't make her cry for worlds. I was afraid you wouldn't like it—at first. Don't cry, mammie! It'll be all right when you know him." But Emily wept on. "He hasn't been happy, mother!" Martha entreated her.
Her words seemed to mock Bob. He spluttered out his fury.