“Oh, my God,” screamed Ray, “I haven’t got a gun on me! He KNOWS I haven’t got my gun with me! WHY haven’t I got my gun with me?”
They hustled him away, and Corliss, enraged and startled, passed on. As he sped the car up Corliss Street, he decided to anticipate his letter to Moliterno by a cable. He had stayed too long.
Cora looked charming in a new equipment for November motoring; yet it cannot be said that either of them enjoyed the drive. They lunched a dozen miles out from the city at an establishment somewhat in the nature of a roadside inn; and, although its cuisine was quite unknown to Cora’s friend, Mrs. Villard (an eager amateur of the table), they were served with a meal of such unusual excellence that the waiter thought it a thousand pities patrons so distinguished should possess such poor appetites.
They returned at about three in the afternoon, and Cora descended from the car wearing no very amiable expression.
“Why won’t you come in now?” she asked, looking at him angrily. “We’ve got to talk things out. We’ve settled nothing whatever. I want to know why you can’t stop.”
“I’ve got some matters to attend to, and–-“
“What matters?” She shot him a glance of fierce skepticism.
“Are you packing to get out?”
“Cora!” he cried reproachfully, “how can you say things like that to ME!”
She shook her head. “Oh, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least! How do
“Cora,” he explained, gently, “I didn’t say I meant to go. I said only that I thought I ought to, because Moliterno will be needing me in Basilicata. I ought to be there, since it appears that no more money is to be raised here. I ought to be superintending operations in the oil-field, so as to make the best use of the little I have raised.”
“You?” she laughed. “Of course
He sighed deeply. “You know perfectly well that I appreciate all you did. We don’t seem to get on very well to- day–-“
“No!” She laughed again, bitterly. “So you think you’ll be going, don’t you?”
“To my rooms to write some necessary letters.”
“Of course not to pack your trunk?”
“Cora,” he returned, goaded; “sometimes you’re just impossible. I’ll come tomorrow forenoon.”
“Then don’t bring the car. I’m tired of motoring and tired of lunching in that rotten hole. We can talk just as well in the library. Papa’s better, and that little fiend will be in school tomorrow. Come out about ten.”
He started the machine. “Don’t forget I love you,” he called in a low voice.
She stood looking after him as the car dwindled down the street.
“Yes, you do!” she murmured.
She walked up the path to the house, her face thoughtful, as with a tiresome perplexity. In her own room, divesting herself of her wraps, she gave the mirror a long scrutiny. It offered the picture of a girl with a hard and dreary air; but Cora saw something else, and presently, though the dreariness remained, the hardness softened to a great compassion. She suffered: a warm wave of sorrow submerged her, and she threw herself upon the bed and wept long and silently for herself.
At last her eyes dried, and she lay staring at the ceiling. The doorbell rang, and Sarah, the cook, came to inform her that Mr. Richard Lindley was below.
“Tell him I’m out.”
“Can’t,” returned Sarah. “Done told him you was home.” And she departed firmly.
Thus abandoned, the prostrate lady put into a few words what she felt about Sarah, and, going to the door, whisperingly summoned in Laura, who was leaving the sick-room, across the hall.
“Richard is downstairs. Will you go and tell him I’m sick in bed—or dead? Anything to make him go.” And, assuming Laura’s acquiescence, Cora went on, without pause: “Is father worse? What’s the matter with you, Laura?”
“Nothing. He’s a little better, Miss Peirce thinks.”
“You look ill.”
“I’m all right.”
“Then run along like a duck and get rid of that old bore for me.”
“Cora—please see him?”
“Not me! I’ve got too much to think about to bother with him.”
Laura walked to the window and stood with her back to her sister, apparently interested in the view of Corliss Street there presented. “Cora,” she said, “why don’t you marry him and have done with all this?”
Cora hooted.
“Why not? Why not marry him as soon as you can get ready? Why don’t you go down now and tell him you will? Why not, Cora?”
“I’d as soon marry a pail of milk—yes, tepid milk, skimmed! I–-“
“Don’t you realize how kind he’d be to you?”
