Mary flushed. It wasn't fair, she thought, for Sarah to reproach her for something that was not her fault. It wasn't fair to remind her of one of the things she was always trying to forget.
"Aren't you a little premature?" she asked. "The child isn't born yet."
Tom who stood awkwardly looking out of the window coughed. David smiled his twisted smile.
Sarah drew herself up. "It will be," she said. "Ursula's not the girl to fail us in this kind of thing."
"No, I suppose not. I hear you've been having your house painted, Tom."
Sarah frowned. The house belonged to her, and she belonged to a people that treats ownership seriously.
"We intended to paint," she replied for her husband. "It is the year for painting. In fact when last we had it done I said to Tom, in 1913 we will have it done all over."
"But aren't you going to, then?"
Mary looked from Tom to Sarah. Painting was a safe topic. It afforded no possible opening for David. If David started to tell Sarah what he thought about capitalist farmers, it would be terrible. Strangely enough, she was thinking, "It will be terrible for Mr. Rossitur. He's never met anyone like Sarah before, I'm sure." She wanted to protect him from the rigidity of her sister-in-law's defiance to progress. She played for time.
"Why aren't you painting?"