her wardrobe. Yet she was not ashamed. Her mother had taught her that poverty was not disgraceful if one bore it with dignity. She tried to remember that. Yet she wished Delia would go down—leave her to open her own bag, hide her few simple garments in the great clothes-press.
Everything in the room was massive and old-fashioned, with the massiveness redeemed a bit by the roses on the faded chintz that covered the chairs and couch, and by the clean, frilled swiss covers on dresser and table. Two long windows gave a wide view of the Bay with gulls flashing white against the deep blue sky.
Her eyes came back to Delia, who was opening the bag. "My chile," she said, as the rose-colored lining and ivory fittings were revealed, "my chile—I 'members dis bag."
Hildegarde's voice was eager. "You knew my mother?"
"Yes, miss." Delia, kneeling on the floor, was aware of the dramatic quality of her own revelation. "Many's the time she's cried in these arms."
Their eyes met. "She was unhappy?" Hildegarde said.
"I packed her bag for the las' time, honey." Delia was in the full swing of her recital. "An' she set right where you's a-settin' now, and she look like she were ca'ved fum stone."
"In this chair—?"
"Yes, miss, this were her room. And she set there, and downstai's Mr. Louis was rompin' and ragin'. You see, he wanted her to stay, and he wanted her to go.
