heart.

And instead of her eighteen she looked sixteen, there was that kind of
timid adolescence about her, and yet when she said, "Mamma, you stayed
down so late," the bang of a little pistol shot was back somewhere in
her voice.

"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, mamma?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Samstag, and sat 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, mamma. 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