Mrs. Malter was inordinately hospitable. She took Susie upstairs to leave her hat and coat in a bedroom.
“What a sweetly pretty blouse!” she said.
She herself wore a black dinner gown with a broad green sash, her henna hair was done high on her head; she had green sandals on her tiny feet. It was not a becoming outfit, and the eager hospitality of her manner was not becoming either.
And yet, instead of enjoying her victory, the girl felt sorry for Mrs. Malter. Someone’s said something, or done something to her, she thought. I’d certainly like to know what it was, but I can’t ask her. Mrs. Malter tripped across the room and opened a door, and turned a switch to illuminate a pink and white bathroom.
“What a pretty bathroom!” said Susie.
“This is my guest room,” Mrs. Malter said. “My cou
