"Why--Mr. Latz--and I--sat and talked."
An almost imperceptible nerve was dancing against Mrs. Samstag's right
temple. Alma could sense, rather than see the ridge of pain.
"You're all right, mama?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Samstag, and plumped rather than sat herself down on a
divan, its naked greenness relieved by a thrown scarf of black velvet,
stenciled in gold.
"You shouldn't have remained down so long if your head is hurting," said
her daughter, and quite casually took up her mother's beaded hand-bag
where it had fallen in her lap, but her fingers feeling lightly and
furtively as if for the shape of its contents.
"Stop that," said Mrs. Samstag, jerking it back, a dull anger in her
voice.
"Come to bed, mama. If you're in for neuralgia, I'll fix the electric
pad."
Suddenly Mrs. Samstag shot out her arm, rather slim looking in the
invariable long sleeve she affected, drawing Alma back toward her by the
ribbon sash of her pretty chiffon frock.
"Alma, be good to mama tonight! Sweetheart--be good to her."
The quick suspecting fear that had motivated Miss Samstag's groping
along the beaded hand-bag shot out again in her manner.
"Mama--you haven't?"
"No, no. Don't nag me. It's something else, Alma. Something mama is very
happy about."
"Mama, you've broken your promise again.
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