The woman inclined her head.
Henry Bales, his moment of speculation past, felt his spirit sinking. He said nothing, because he could think of nothing that could be said to a woman who looked like that. She brought with her the close air of the stricken chamber at the top of the stairs. By merely opening the door and appearing there she had thrust a powerful element of hostility into the simple little kitchen. Her uncompromising eyes drew Sue within the tragic atmosphere of the house as effectively and definitely as it thrust himself without it.
Sue's next remark was even more illuminating than had been his own curious haste to conceal his pipe.
“Oh,” murmured Sue, “have we disturbed”—she hesitated, fought with herself, came out with it—-“mother?”
“Well, the smoke annoys her.” Aunt Matilda did not add the word “naturally,” but the tone and look conveyed it. “And she can hear your voices.”
Henry Bates had to struggle with a rising anger. There were implications in that queerly hostile look that reflected on Sue as on himself. But they were and remained unspoken. They could not be met.
The only possible course was to go; and to go with the miserable feeling that he was surrendering Sue to the enemy.
He turned to her now, speaking with quiet dignity; little realizing that even this dignity aroused resentment and suspicion in the unreceptive mind behind those eyes on the stairs—that it looked brazen coming from a young man whose sandy hair straggled down over his ears and close to his suspiciously soft collar, whose clothes were old and wrinkled, whose mild studious countenance exhibited nothing of the vigor and the respect for conformity that are expected of young men in suburbs who must go in every morning on the seven-thirty-six and come out every evening on the five-fifty-two, and who, therefore, would naturally be classed with such queer folk as gipsies and actors.
“If you like, Sue,” he said, “I'll get Betty to hurry so I can bring a suit-case out to-night.”
She waited a brief moment before answering; and in that moment was swept finally within Aunt Matilda's lines. “Oh, no,” she said, speaking with sudden rapidity, “don't do that. To-morrow will do—just send them.”