The two sons were supporting their mother, one on either side, and continued to do so along the hall and on into the office. She was wearing a tan summer outfit, dotted with brown, which I would have assumed to be silk if I had not heard tell that in certain shops you can part with three centuries for a little number in rayon. Eve was in white, with yellow buttons, and Phoebe was in what I would call calico, two shades of blue. My impulse to smile at her of course had to be choked.
Thinking it might prevent an outburst, or at least postpone it, I formally pronounced their names for Wolfe and then saw that their chairs were arranged the way he liked it when we had a crowd, so that he wouldn’t have to work his neck too much to take them all in. Jerome and Mortimer, declining my offer of the big couch for Mom, got her comfortable in the red leather chair, but it was Phoebe who took the chair next to her. Mortimer stayed on his feet. The others sat.
Wolfe’s eyes swept the arc. “You all look mad,” he said inoffensively.
“If you think that’s witty,” Eve snapped.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “I was merely acknowledging an atmosphere.” His eyes moved to Mrs. Whitten. “Do you want me to talk, madam? You came here, and you might like to tell me why.”
“Your lousy punk,” Mortimer blurted, “might like to step outside and ask me why!”
“Mortimer!” Mrs. Whitten turned to him. “Sit down.”
He hesitated, opened his trap and shut it again, moved, and sat, next to Phoebe. A fine brother she picked.
“You will please remember,” Mrs. Whitten told the flock, “that I am to do the talking. I wanted to come alone, but you talked me out of it, and now you will please keep silent. Including you, Dan,” she added to the son-in-law. She returned to Wolfe. “I was getting my breath. The exertion was — not too much, but enough.” She was still using sighs to get oxygen, and she was even paler than when I had seen her in bed.
“I can wait,” Wolfe said placidly. “Would you like some brandy?”