Tillie, grotesque of figure and tragic-eyed, listened to her patiently, while K. stood, uneasy and uncomfortable, in the wide door of the hay-barn and watched automobiles turning in from the road. When Christine rose to leave, she confessed her failure frankly.
“I've meant well, Tillie,” she said. “I'm afraid I've said exactly what I shouldn't. I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, two wonderful pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband—that is, Mr. Schwitter—cares for you,—you admit that,—and you are going to have a child.”
Tillie's pale eyes filled.
“I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe,” she said simply. “Now I'm not. When I look in that glass at myself, and call myself what I am, I'd give a good bit to be back on the Street again.”
She found opportunity for a word with K. while Christine went ahead of him out of the barn.
“I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Le Moyne.” She lowered her voice. “Joe Drummond's been coming out here pretty regular. Schwitter says he's drinking a little. He don't like him loafing around here: he sent him home last Sunday. What's come over the boy?”
“I'll talk to him.”
“The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. I thought maybe Sidney Page could do something with him.”
“I think he'd not like her to know. I'll do what I can.”
K.'s face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road.