“Good-afternoon,” returned Mrs. Babcock. She tried to smile and recover her equanimity. “I've been into Mandy Pratt's,” she went on, “an' I thought I'd jest look in here a minute before I went home, but I wouldn't have come in so if I'd known you was—busy.”
“Come out in the other room an' sit down,” said Mrs. Field.
Mrs. Babcock's agitated bulk followed her over the gray carpet, and settled into the rocking-chair at one of the front windows. Mrs. Field seated herself at the other.
“It's been a pleasant day, ain't it?” said she.
“Real pleasant. I told Mr. Babcock this noon that I was goin' to git out somewheres this afternoon come what would. I've been cooped up all the spring house-cleanin', an' now I'm goin' to git out. I dun'no' when I've been anywhere. I ain't been into Mandy's sence Christmas that I know of—I ain't been in to set down, anyway; an' I've been meanin' to run in an' see you all winter, Mis' Field.” All the trace of confusion now left in Mrs. Babcock's manner was a weak volubility.
“It's about all anybody can do to do their housework, if they do it thorough,” returned Mrs. Field. “I s'pose you've been takin' up carpets?”
“Took up every carpet in the house. I do every year. Some folks don't, but I can't stand it. I'm afraid of moths, too. I s'pose you've got your cleanin' all done?”
“Yes, I've got it about done.”
“Well, I shouldn't think you could do so much, Mis' Field, with your hands.”
Mrs. Field's hands lay in her lap, yellow and heavily corrugated, the finger-joints in great knots, which looked as if they had been tied in the bone. Mrs. Babcock eyed them pitilessly.