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 it, the figure of the slattern Essie standing in the doorway, all their petty boasting and piety and lying, became suddenly vulgar and loathsome. And then, almost at once, he became ashamed of himself for being ashamed, for they were his people. He had no others. It was a subtle, sickening sort of torture. 

Emma was herself forced to go in at last and send away the newspaper man, for Jason would have kept him there the rest of the night, telling a story which became more and more embroidered with each rash recounting. And when, at last, the reporter had gone, the others came in and sat about while Jason continued his talk. But the evening died slowly, perhaps because of Elmer's suspicions, or Naomi's curious depression, or Philip's own disgust and low spirits. Jason found himself talking presently against a curious, foreboding silence, of which he took no notice. Only Emma and Mabelle were still listening.

It was Elmer who at last broke up the party, pushing the rotund and breathless Mabelle before him. In the door Mabelle turned, and, shaking her head a little coquettishly, said, "Well, good-night, Jason. Good-night, Emma. I feel like I was saying 'good-night' to a honeymoon couple." And the bawdy look came into her eyes. "There'll never be any second honeymoon for Elmer and me. We've got our family now and that's all done."

Still tittering, she was dragged off by her husband. When she had gone, Jason said, "Mabelle is a cute one,