It was that morning that Emmie decided to make the best of a bad job and see us, and all the time the nurse was fixing her up for the doctor’s visit she told us her symptoms. For a dying woman she certainly was particular about her appearance, for she was dressed up to beat anything in a silk nightgown, and with her hair crimped. Just before the nurse went out she sprayed her with violet water, and Emmie stopped whining about serums and blood pressure long enough to say that she had to use perfume because the smell of cooking in the house upset her poor weak stomach.
“And Will is so thoughtless,” she said. “Would you believe that he brought home spareribs and sauerkraut the other night? And it isn’t more than ten days since he fried some onions for his supper! But I suppose men are all alike.”
“No, Emmie,” Tish told her gently. “No, they are not. There are some men who would as soon commit murder as not. But your Will isn’t that sort. Anybody can see that.”
Well, Emmie eyed her suspiciously, but Tish went on asking her if all the arrangements for the funeral were made, and if she would like us to stay on until everything was over.
“We could put the house in order, and so on,” she said. “I dare say Will will marry again, because the lonelier they are, the sooner they do it; but we could leave things tidy. And he would have to wait a year anyhow.”
“I should think he would,” said Emmie coldly. “And if you think I intend to have this house put in order for Will’s second wife you can think again. Anyhow, Will Hartford has never looked at another woman and never will.”
“Not even at that nurse of yours?” Tish inquired. “I was just thinking last night that I didn’t consider it exactly wise to leave these two together as much as you do. She’s a right nice-looking girl.”
“I can’t say I admire your taste!” she said. But when the nurse came back she gave her a long, hard look and then said she would take a rest so as to be ready for the doctor’s visit.
“I don’t know if Will has told you,” she remarked, “but I’m not supposed to have company. Excitement is my worst enemy.”
“Well, we’re not company, Emmie,” Tish told her. “You just go on and be as sick as you like. And don’t worry about us. Nobody with a heart would leave Will to go through the funeral by himself. And you might tell us where your grave clothes are while you’re still able to speak.”