VII
The window panes had cleared, though it yet rained. She sat after the men had left the table and at last Emmy peered through the door, then entered. She rose and together the two of them cleared the table, over Emmy’s mild protest, and carried the broken meal to the kitchen. Mrs. Powers turned back her sleeves briskly.
“No, no, lemme do it,” Emmy objected. “You’ll spoil your dress.”
“It’s an old one: no matter if I do.”
“It don’t look old to me. I think it’s right pretty. But this is my work. You go on and lemme do it.”
“I know, but I’ve got to do something or I’ll go wild. Don’t you worry about this dress: I don’t.”
“You are rich, you don’t have to, I guess,” Emmy answered coldly, examining the dress.
“Do you like it?” Emmy made no reply. “I think clothes of this sort suit people of your and my type, don’t you?”
“I dunno. I never thought about it,” splashing water in the sink.
“I tell you what,” said Mrs. Powers, watching Emmy’s firm, sturdy back, “I have a new dress up in my trunk that doesn’t suit me, for some reason. When we get through, suppose you come up with me and we’ll try it on you. I can sew a little, and we can make it fit you exactly. What about it?”
Emmy thawed imperceptibly. “What use would I have for it? I don’t go anywhere, and I got clothes good enough to wash and sweep and cook in.”
“I know, but it’s always well to have some dress-up things. I will lend you stockings and things to go with it, and a hat, too.”
Emmy slid dishes into hot water and steam rose about her reddened arms. “Where’s your husband?” she asked irrelevantly.
“He was killed in the war, Emmy.”
“Oh,” she said. Then, after a while: “And you so young, too.” She gave Mrs. Powers a quick, kind glance: sisters in sorrow. (My Donald was killed, too.)
Mrs. Powers rose quickly. “Where’s a cup towel? Let’s get done so we can try that dress.”
Emmy drew her hands from the water and dried them on her apron. “Wait, lemme get an apron for you, too.”
A bedraggled sparrow eyed her from the limp, glistening morning-glory vine, and Emmy dropped the apron over her head and knotted the cords at the back. Steam rose again about Emmy’s forearms, wreathing her head, and the china was warm and smooth and sensuous to the touch; glass gleamed under Mrs. Powers’ toweling and a dull parade of silver took the light mutely, hushing it as like two priestesses they repeated the orisons of Clothes.
As they passed the study door they saw the rector and his son gazing quietly into a rain-perplexed tree, and Gilligan sprawled on his back upon a battered divan, smoking and reading.