Inside the car, Rush mumbled introductions. His wife was a dark shadow
in the front seat, her hair drawn back in a severe bun. Her features
suggested gypsy blood. He called her Raimee.
_Odd name_, thought Ted Graham. And he noticed that she, too, gave that
strange first impression of age that melted in a shift of light.
Mrs. Rush turned her gypsy features toward Martha Graham. "You are going
to have a baby?"
It came out as an odd, veiled statement.
Abruptly, the car rolled forward.
Martha Graham said, "It's supposed to be born in about two months. We
hope it's a boy."
Mrs. Rush looked at her husband. "I have changed my mind," she said.
Rush spoke without taking his attention from the road. "It is too ..."
He broke off, spoke in a tumble of strange sounds.
Ted Graham recognized it as the language he'd heard on the telephone.
Mrs. Rush answered in the same tongue, anger showing in the intensity of
her voice. Her husband replied, his voice calmer.
Presently, Mrs. Rush fell moodily silent.
Rush tipped his head toward the rear of the car. "My wife has moments
when she does not want to get rid of the old house. It has been with her
for many years."