It was in March, six months later, that Marian King came. They had hoped
for it, but never expected it. And she came. Four people were waiting in
the living room of the big Baldwin house overlooking the river. Flora
and her husband, Adele and Aunt Sophy. They sat, waiting. Now and then
Adele would rise, nervously, and go to the window that faced the street.
Flora was weeping with audible sniffs. Baldwin sat in his chair frowning
a little, a dead cigar in one corner of his mouth. Only Aunt Sophy sat
quietly, waiting.
There was little conversation. None in the last five minutes. Flora
broke the silence, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief as she
spoke.
"Sophy, how can you sit there like that? Not that I don't envy you. I
do. I remember I used to feel sorry for you. I used to say, 'Poor
Sophy.' But you unmarried ones are the happiest, after all. It's the
married woman who drinks the cup to the last bitter drop. There you sit,
Sophy, fifty years old, and life hasn't even touched you. You don't know
how cruel life is."
Suddenly, "There!" said Adele. The other three in the room stood up and
faced the door. The sound of a motor stopping outside. Daniel Oakley's
hearty voice: "Well, it only took us five minutes from the station.
Pretty good."
Footsteps down the hall. Marian King stood in the doorway. They faced
her, the four--Baldwin and Adele and Flora and Sophy. Marian King stood
a moment, uncertainly, her eyes upon them. She looked at the two older
women with swift, appraising glance. Then she came into the room,
quickly, and put her two hands on Aunt Sophy's shoulders and looked into
her eyes straight and sure.
"You must be a very proud woman," she said. "You ought to be a very
proud woman."