"Oh, Kate!"
"Yes, yes, I know," murmured Kate soothingly.
"No, you don't," retorted Marna. "How can you? It's--it's the milk."
There was a catch in her voice.
"The milk!" echoed Kate blankly. "What milk? I thought--"
"Oh, I know," Marna cried impatiently. "You thought I was worrying about
that old opera, and that I wanted to be up there behind that screen
stabbing myself. Well, of course, knowing the score so well, and having
hoped once to do so much with it, the notes did rather try to jump out
of my throat. But, goodness, what does all that matter? It's the baby's
milk that I'm carrying on about. I don't believe I told George to warm
it." Her voice ceased in a wail.
The car swung around the corner, and Kate half lifted Marna up the huge
step, and saw her go reeling down the aisle as the cumbersome vehicle
lurched forward. Then she turned her own steps toward the stairs of the
elevated station.
"The milk!" she ejaculated with commingled tenderness and impatience.
"Then that's why she didn't say anything about going behind the scenes.
I thought it was because she couldn't endure the old surroundings and
the pity of her associates of the opera-days. The milk! I wonder--"
What she wondered she did not precisely say; but more than one person on
the crowded elevated train noticed that the handsome woman in black
velvet (it really was velveteen, purchased at a bargain) had something
on her mind.