Polly laughed a bit unsteadily. “Only the wealthy can afford nervous ‘prosperity,’ and I am not in that class,” she said. “I must work—work!” She spoke with nervous vehemence; Mrs. Hale’s surprised expression checked her; and with an effort she regained her self-control. “What can I do for you?”
“Answer these notes,” and Mrs. Hale laid her hand on them. “Take this black-edged note paper,” holding out a box she had brought with her.
Mrs. Hale’s powers of observation were wool-gathering as she dictated her answers, first reading each letter in a monotone—in itself enough to try the steadiest nerves—before composing its answer; then losing her place and having to be prompted, which added to her already confused state of mind. Every expression of sympathy in the notes brought tears in its train, and if the steady application of Mrs. Hale’s handkerchief proved an additional barrier to the speedy completion of her task, it also prevented her perceiving the wavering writing of Polly’s swiftly moving pen.
“Austin was very much beloved,” she remarked. “I cannot understand, as I told my husband over and over, I cannot understand who would have a motive for killing him. It is beyond me.”
“Yes,” murmured Polly. She laid down her pen and rubbed her stiff fingers. There still remained numerous notes to answer. “Dear Mrs. Hale, let me finish answering these later on. You must be exhausted.”
“No, they must be completed now,” Mrs. Hale spoke with firmness, and Polly, hiding her unsteady fingers under pretense of searching for another pen among Judith’s papers, resigned herself to the situation. “Judith suggested that I order an engraved card of acknowledgment, but I desire an individual letter sent to each of our friends. It will not take much more of your time,” observing Polly’s eyes stray to her wrist-watch.
“Will you let me complete the letters this afternoon?” Polly asked. “I have not touched my regular work for your husband, and it is nearly your luncheon hour.”
“Luncheon will be half an hour later to-day,” responded Mrs. Hale. “Anna is laid up and Maud asked for more time. She is not very quick at her work, you know.”
“Anna ill! That is too bad,” exclaimed Polly. “I hope it is nothing serious.”
“A sprained ankle.” Mrs. Hale leaned back in her chair and relaxed; she felt the need of a little gossip, for in spite of her insistence on completing her letters, the steady application was commencing to wear upon her. “When anything goes wrong with Anna the whole house is upset.”