Then the under-eyes began
to look their muddiest. They were darkening now and she put up two
fingers with little pressing movement to her temple.
"You're a great little woman," reiterated Mr. Latz, rather riveting even
Mrs. Samstag's suspicion that here was no great stickler for variety of
expression.
"And a great sufferer, too," he said, noting the pressing fingers.
She colored under this delightful impeachment.
"I wouldn't wish one of my neuralgia spells to my worst enemy, Mr.
Latz."
"If you were mine--I mean--if--the--say--was mine, I wouldn't stop until
I had you to every specialist in Europe. I know a thing or two about
those fellows over there. Some of them are wonders."
Mrs. Samstag looked off, her profile inclined to lift and fall as if by
little pulleys of emotion.
"That's easier said than done, Mr. Latz, by a--a widow who wants to do
right by her grown daughter and living so--high since the war."
"I--I--" said Mr. Latz, leaping impulsively forward on the chair that
was as tightly upholstered in effect as he in his modish suit, then
clutching himself there as if he had caught the impulse on the fly--"I
just wish I could help."
"Oh!" she said, and threw up a swift, brown look from the lace making.
He laughed, but from nervousness.
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