Mrs. Volsky answered, as she almost always answered, with a mechanical question.

“What say?” she murmured dully.

Rose-Marie eyed her over the top of Lily’s golden head.  After all, she told herself, in the case of Mrs. Volsky she could see the point of Dr. Blanchard’s assertion!  She had known many animals who apparently were quicker to reason, who apparently had more enthusiasm and ambition, than Mrs. Volsky.  She looked at the dingy apron, the unkempt hair, the sagging flesh upon the gray cheeks.  And she was conscious suddenly of a feeling of revulsion.  She fought it back savagely.

“Christ,” she told herself, “never turned away from people because they were dirty, or ugly, or stupid.  Christ loved everybody—­no matter how low they were.  He would have loved Mrs. Volsky.”

It was curious how it gave her strength—­that reflection—­strength to look straight at the woman in front of her, and to smile.

“Why,” she asked, and the smile became brighter as she asked it, “why don’t you try to fix your hair more neatly, Mrs. Volsky?  And why don’t you wear fresh aprons, and keep the flat cleaner?  Why don’t you try to make your children’s home more pleasant for them?”

Mrs. Volsky did not resent the suggestion as some other women might have done.  Mrs. Volsky had reached the point where she no longer resented even blows.

“I uster try—­onct,” she said tonelessly, “but it ain’t no good, no more.  Ella an’ Bennie an’ Jim don’ care.  An’ Pa—­he musses up th’ flat whenever he comes inter it.  An’ Lily can’t see how it looks.  So what’s th’ use?”

It was a surprisingly long speech for Mrs. Volsky.  And some of it showed a certain reasoning power.  Rose-Marie told herself, in all fairness, that if she were Mrs. Volsky—­she, too, might be inclined to ask “What’s th’ use?” She leaned forward, searching desperately in her mind for something to say.

“Do you like me, Mrs. Volsky?” she questioned at last, “Do you like me?”

The woman nodded, and again the suggestion of a light flamed up in her eyes.

“Sure I like you,” she said, “you are good to all of us—­an’ to Lily.”

“Then,” Rose-Marie’s voice was quivering with eagerness, “then won’t you try—­for my sake—­to make things here,” the sweep of her hand included every corner of the ugly room, “a little better?  I’ll help you, very gladly.  I’ll make new aprons for you, and I’ll”—­her brave resolution faltered, but only for a moment—­“I’ll wash your hair, and take you to the free baths with me.  And then,” she had a sudden inspiration, “then Lily will love to touch you, you’ll be so nice and clean!  Then Lily will be glad that she has you for a mother!”

All at once the shell of stupidity had slipped from Mrs. Volsky’s bent shoulders.  All at once she was eager, breathlessly eager.