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Updated: May 14, 2025
Perhaps it was made with an object in view, but certainly it was not meant to bring forth the storm of protest that came from Emma McChesney's lips. She turned on him, lips quivering, eyes wrathful. "You shouldn't have come!" she cried. "You're as much out of place in a six-room flat as a truffle would be in a boiled New England dinner. Do you think I don't see its shortcomings?
"Greetings!" boomed this cheery vision, raising one hand, palm outward, in mystic salute. He beamed upon the frowning Jock. "How's the infant prodigy!" The fact that Jock's frown deepened to a scowl ruffled him not at all. "And what," went on he, crossing his feet and leaning negligently against Mrs. McChesney's desk, "and what can I do for thee, fair lady?"
I looked, and far up the trail was a speck. "I reckon it is," I answered, and wondered at his eyesight. "She travels over to see Tom McChesney's Ma once in a while." He looked at me queerly. "I reckon I'll go here and sit down, Davy," said he, "so's not to be in the way." And he walked around the corner of the house.
Next morning she was playing shuffleboard with the elegant, indolent Pepe, and talking North American football and baseball to him. She had not been Jock McChesney's mother all those years for nothing. She could discuss sports with the best of them. Outdoor sports had become the recent fashion among the rich young Argentines.
It speaks well for Emma McChesney's balance that when she found herself in bed, two strange women, and one strange man, and an all- too-familiar bell-boy in the room, she did not say, "Where am I? What happened?"
It was one of Emma McChesney's boasts that she was the only living woman who could get off a sleeper at Bay City, Michigan, at 5 A.M., without looking like a Swedish immigrant just dumped at Ellis Island. Traveling had become a science with her, as witness her serviceable dark-blue silk kimono, and her hair in a schoolgirl braid down her back.
It went about like a mother who has found her child asleep at play, and who steals away atiptoe, finger on lip, lips smiling tenderly. The delicate antennae of Emma McChesney's mind sensed the change. Perhaps she read something in the glowing eyes of her sister-in-love, Hortense. Perhaps she caught a new tone in Miss Kelly's voice or the forewoman's.
There was visible on Emma McChesney's face that little tightening of the muscles, that narrowing of the eyelids which betokens intense earnestness; the gathering of all the forces before taking a momentous step. Then, as quickly, her face cleared. She shook her head with a little air of sudden decision. "Not now. Just because it's our last card I want to be sure that I'm playing it well.
"I was thinkin' what a cinch it would be to just push aside that canvas thing there by the steps and try what the newspaper accounts call 'jumping into the night. Say, if I'd had on my other lawnjerie I'll bet I'd have done it." Into Emma McChesney's understanding heart there swept a wave of pity. But she answered lightly: "Is that supposed to be funny?" The plump blonde yawned.
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