Page, aroused, indignant, disdained an answer, but drew in her breath and held it hard, her lips tight pressed.
“It’s all very well for you to pose, miss,” Laura went on; “to pose as injured innocence. But you understand very well what I mean. If you don’t love me, at least I shall not allow you to flout me—deliberately, defiantly. And it does seem strange,” she added, her voice beginning to break, “that when we two are all alone in the world, when there’s no father or mother—and you are all I have, and when I love you as I do, that there might be on your part—a little consideration—when I only want to be loved for my own sake, and not—and not—when I want to be, oh, loved—loved—loved—”
The two sisters were in each other’s arms by now, and Page was crying no less than Laura.
“Oh, little sister,” exclaimed Laura, “I know you love me. I know you do. I didn’t mean to say that. You must forgive me and be very kind to me these days. I know I’m cross, but sometimes these days I’m so excited and nervous I can’t help it, and you must try to bear with me. Hark, there’s the bell.”
Listening, they heard the servant open the door, and then the sound of Jadwin’s voice and the clank of his cane in the porcelain cane rack. But still Laura could not be persuaded to go down. No, she was going to bed; she had neuralgia; she was too nervous to so much as think. Her gown was “Dutchy.” And in the end, so unshakable was her resolve, that Page and her aunt had to sit through the dinner with Jadwin and entertain him as best they could.
But as the coffee was being served the three received a genuine surprise. Laura appeared. All her finery was laid off. She wore the simplest, the most veritably monastic, of her dresses, plain to the point of severity. Her hands were bare of rings. Not a single jewel, not even the most modest ornament relieved her sober appearance. She was very quiet, spoke in a low voice and declared she had come down only to drink a glass of mineral water and then to return at once to her room.
As a matter of fact, she did nothing of the kind. The others prevailed upon her to take a cup of coffee. Then the dessert was recalled, and, forgetting herself in an animated discussion with Jadwin as to the name of their steam yacht, she ate two plates of wine jelly before she was aware. She expressed a doubt as to whether a little salad would do her good, and after a vehement exhortation from Jadwin, allowed herself to be persuaded into accepting a sufficiently generous amount.
“I think a classical name would be best for the boat,” she declared. “Something like Arethusa or The Nereid.”
They rose from the table and passed into the library. The evening was sultry, threatening a rainstorm, and they preferred not to sit on the stoop. Jadwin lit a cigar; he still wore his business clothes—the inevitable cutaway, white waistcoat, and grey trousers of the middle-aged man of affairs.
“Oh, call her the Artemis,” suggested Page.
“Well now, to tell the truth,” observed Jadwin, “those names look pretty in print; but somehow I don’t fancy them. They’re hard to read, and they sound somehow frilled up and fancy. But if you’re satisfied, Laura—”
“I knew a young man once,” began Aunt Wess’, “who had a boat—that was when we lived at Kenwood and Mr. Wessels belonged to the Farragut—and this young man had a boat he called Fanchon. He got tipped over in her one day, he and the three daughters of a lady I knew well, and two days afterward they found them at the bottom of the lake, all holding on to each other; and they fetched them up just like that in one piece. The mother of those girls never smiled once since that day, and her hair turned snow white. That was in ’seventy-nine. I remember it perfectly. The boat’s name was Fanchon.”
“But that was a sail boat, Aunt Wess’,” objected Laura. “Ours is a steam yacht. There’s all the difference in the world.”
“I guess they’re all pretty risky, those pleasure boats,” answered Aunt Wess’. “My word, you couldn’t get me to set foot on one.”
Jadwin nodded his head at Laura, his eyes twinkling.
“Well, we’ll leave ’em all at home, Laura, when we go,” he said.
A little later one of Page’s young men called to see her, and Page took him off into the drawing-room across the hall. Mrs. Wessels seized upon the occasion to slip away unobserved, and Laura and Jadwin were left alone.
“Well, my girl,” began Jadwin, “how’s the day gone with you?”
She had been seated at the centre table, by the drop light—the only light in the room—turning over the leaves of The Age of Fable, looking for graceful and appropriate names for the yacht. Jadwin leaned over her and put his hand upon her shoulder.
“Oh, about the same as usual,” she answered. “I told Page and Aunt Wess’ this morning.”
“What did they have to say?” Jadwin laid a soft but clumsy hand upon Laura’s head, adding, “Laura, you have the most wonderful hair I ever saw.”
“Oh, they were not surprised. Curtis, don’t, you are
