“She is an angel,” said the tall woman, as if Fanny had not meant it.
“O ... she’s a good thing,” said Tessie Liebovitz. Her black eyes lay on Fanny’s.—There is no misunderstanding! They were soft. “We love Clara,” she said. “We say yes ... just automatically ... to Clara’s friends.”
“Thank you,” Fanny looked sternly at Susan Sennister. “That’s a beginning at least.” She wanted to smile. This woman was so very stiff. She must be very stern.—How can I tell? What are they?... She went on: “I say Yes to the friends of Clara—but with all my heart.”
“Have you been here long?” asked Tessie.
“Very long!”
“We heard her speak of you, before she brought you here,” said Susan. Then she settled back in her chair. Something within her was released. She pulled off her gloves. Her shoulders slackened. “That don’t prove anything, of course.” Her smile was different ... sweeter in its hurt. “Clara’s like all of us. We are good pals. We have a lot of secrets ... trade secrets we chew over. That gives us an air of being close. But a real confidence ...? Not us!”
“O I don’t know,” said Tessie.
“That’s just it—you don’t.”
There was a pause. Fanny was in the sun ... feeling herself within it strangely, unfairly warmed against these two. She wanted to warm them.
“Won’t one of you take this chair? The sun’s so good.”