for a means of slipping out. But the only door, portiere-hung, was
the one leading into the parlour. And now this concealed poor
blundering Missy from the speakers while it allowed their talk to
drift through.

That talk, stormy and utterly incomprehensible, filled the child
with a growing sense of terror. Accusations, quick pleadings, angry
retorts, attempts at explanation, all formed a dreadful muttering
background out of which shot, like sharp streaks of lightning,
occasional clearly-caught phrases: "Charlie White came home dead
drunk, I tell you--" "--You know I'm mad about you, Helen, or I
wouldn't--" "--Oh, don't you touch me!"

To Missy, trapped and shaking with panic, the storm seemed to have
raged hours before she detected a third voice, old Mrs. Greenleaf s,
which cut calm and controlled across the area of passion.

"You'd better go out a little while, Porter, and let me talk to
her."

Then another interminable stretch of turmoil, this all the more
terrifying because less violent.

"Oh, mother-I can't--" Anger, spent, had given way to broken
sobbing.

"I understand how you feel, dear. But you'll--"

"I despise him!"