“I wouldn't come, if I were you,” she said, unexpectedly.
“Why, Edie, you've been thinking of asking him right along.”
“We don't know how to keep a house,” she persisted, to him. “We can't even cook—you know that's rotten coffee. I'll show you the room, if you like, but I won't feel hurt if you don't take it, I'll be worried if you do.”
Mrs. Boyd watched them perplexedly as they went out, the tall young man with his uneven step, and Edith, who had changed so greatly in the last few weeks, and blew hot one minute and cold the next. Now that she had seen Willy Cameron, Mrs. Boyd wanted him to come. He would bring new life into the little house. He was cheerful. He was not glum like Dan or discontented like Edie. And the dog—She got up slowly and walked over to the chair where Jinx sat, eyes watchfully on the door.
“Nice Jinx,” she said, and stroked his head with a thin and stringy hand. “Nice doggie.”
She took a cake from the plate and fed it to him, bit by bit. She felt happier than she had for a long time, since her children were babies and needed her.
“I meant it,” said Edith, on the stairs. “You stay away. We're a poor lot, and we're unlucky, too. Don't get mixed up with us.”
“Maybe I'm going to bring you luck.”
“The best luck for me would be to fall down these stairs and break my neck.”
He looked at her anxiously, and any doubts he might have had, born of the dreariness, the odors of stale food and of the musty cellar below, of the shabby room she proceeded to show him, died in an impulse to somehow, some way, lift this small group of people out of the slough of despondency which seemed to be engulfing them all.