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Looked
at
from
a
distance
,
however
,
the
hen
resolved
itself
into
a
bonnet
,
and
the
countenance
of
a
stout
old
lady
beamed
down
into
the
room
.
Several
old
copies
of
Town
Tattle
lay
on
the
table
together
with
a
copy
of
Simon
Called
Peter
,
and
some
of
the
small
scandal
magazines
of
Broadway
.
Mrs.
Wilson
was
first
concerned
with
the
dog
.
A
reluctant
elevator-boy
went
for
a
box
full
of
straw
and
some
milk
,
to
which
he
added
on
his
own
initiative
a
tin
of
large
,
hard
dog-biscuits
--
one
of
which
decomposed
apathetically
in
the
saucer
of
milk
all
afternoon
.
Meanwhile
Tom
brought
out
a
bottle
of
whiskey
from
a
locked
bureau
door
.
I
have
been
drunk
just
twice
in
my
life
,
and
the
second
time
was
that
afternoon
;
so
everything
that
happened
has
a
dim
,
hazy
cast
over
it
,
although
until
after
eight
o'clock
the
apartment
was
full
of
cheerful
sun
.
Sitting
on
Tom
's
lap
Mrs.
Wilson
called
up
several
people
on
the
telephone
;
then
there
were
no
cigarettes
,
and
I
went
out
to
buy
some
at
the
drugstore
on
the
corner
.
When
I
came
back
they
had
disappeared
,
so
I
sat
down
discreetly
in
the
living-room
and
read
a
chapter
of
Simon
Called
Peter
--
either
it
was
terrible
stuff
or
the
whiskey
distorted
things
,
because
it
did
n't
make
any
sense
to
me
.
Just
as
Tom
and
Myrtle
(
after
the
first
drink
Mrs.
Wilson
and
I
called
each
other
by
our
first
names
)
reappeared
,
company
commenced
to
arrive
at
the
apartment-door
.
The
sister
,
Catherine
,
was
a
slender
,
worldly
girl
of
about
thirty
,
with
a
solid
,
sticky
bob
of
red
hair
,
and
a
complexion
powdered
milky
white
.
Her
eye-brows
had
been
plucked
and
then
drawn
on
again
at
a
more
rakish
angle
,
but
the
efforts
of
nature
toward
the
restoration
of
the
old
alignment
gave
a
blurred
air
to
her
face
.
When
she
moved
about
there
was
an
incessant
clicking
as
innumerable
pottery
bracelets
jingled
up
and
down
upon
her
arms
.
She
came
in
with
such
a
proprietary
haste
,
and
looked
around
so
possessively
at
the
furniture
that
I
wondered
if
she
lived
here
.
But
when
I
asked
her
she
laughed
immoderately
,
repeated
my
question
aloud
,
and
told
me
she
lived
with
a
girl
friend
at
a
hotel
.
Mr.
McKee
was
a
pale
,
feminine
man
from
the
flat
below
.
He
had
just
shaved
,
for
there
was
a
white
spot
of
lather
on
his
cheekbone
,
and
he
was
most
respectful
in
his
greeting
to
every
one
in
the
room
.
He
informed
me
that
he
was
in
the
"
artistic
game
,
"
and
I
gathered
later
that
he
was
a
photographer
and
had
made
the
dim
enlargement
of
Mrs.
Wilson
's
mother
which
hovered
like
an
ectoplasm
on
the
wall
.
His
wife
was
shrill
,
languid
,
handsome
,
and
horrible
.
She
told
me
with
pride
that
her
husband
had
photographed
her
a
hundred
and
twenty-seven
times
since
they
had
been
married
.
Mrs.
Wilson
had
changed
her
costume
some
time
before
,
and
was
now
attired
in
an
elaborate
afternoon
dress
of
cream-colored
chiffon
,
which
gave
out
a
continual
rustle
as
she
swept
about
the
room
.
With
the
influence
of
the
dress
her
personality
had
also
undergone
a
change
.
The
intense
vitality
that
had
been
so
remarkable
in
the
garage
was
converted
into
impressive
hauteur
.
Her
laughter
,
her
gestures
,
her
assertions
became
more
violently
affected
moment
by
moment
,
and
as
she
expanded
the
room
grew
smaller
around
her
,
until
she
seemed
to
be
revolving
on
a
noisy
,
creaking
pivot
through
the
smoky
air
.
"
My
dear
,
"
she
told
her
sister
in
a
high
,
mincing
shout
,
"
most
of
these
fellas
will
cheat
you
every
time
.
All
they
think
of
is
money
.
I
had
a
woman
up
here
last
week
to
look
at
my
feet
,
and
when
she
gave
me
the
bill
you
'd
of
thought
she
had
my
appendicitis
out
.
"
"
What
was
the
name
of
the
woman
?
"
asked
Mrs.
McKee
.
"
Mrs.
Eberhardt
.
She
goes
around
looking
at
people
's
feet
in
their
own
homes
.
"
