And on the next day, finding that Claire obviously had not thought it over, she threw out a hint that was little save a thinly veiled threat.  She came in with a more genial manner than she was accustomed to waste upon the desert air of penury, and Claire, well schooled in reading the significance of proverbial calms, had a misgiving.

“I’ve been talking to Miss Morton ... about your mother,” Mrs. Ffinch-Brown began, without bothering to lead up to the subject.  “You know Alice Morton....  Well, your mother does, anyway.  I bumped into her yesterday, quite by accident ... at a Red Cross meeting.  It seems she’s one of the directors of The King’s Daughters’ Home for Incurables!” Claire was sitting opposite her aunt, nervously fingering a paper-cutter.  Mrs. Ffinch-Brown eyed her niece sharply, and with an obvious determination to drive her thrusts home before her victim recovered from the first vicious stabs she continued:  “It seems they haven’t a great deal of room out there, but she thinks she could arrange things.  They’ll raise the price to two thousand dollars after the fifteenth of the month, so I thought that—­”

“Oh, not quite yet, Aunt Julia!...  Mother has a chance.  Surely....”

“Now, Claire, don’t get hysterical.  You’re a business woman and you ought to be practical if any of us are.  The price to-day is one thousand dollars.  Think of it!  Care for life in a ward with only three others!  Now I can’t ask your uncle for any more than is necessary in a case like this.  If we make up our mind promptly we can save just one thousand dollars.”

For the moment Claire felt the harried desperation of a cornered animal.  She had never seen anything more disagreeable than her aunt’s sidelong glance.  She felt herself rise from her seat with cold dignity.

“I’m afraid, Aunt Julia, I can’t make up my mind as quickly as you wish.  It isn’t so simple as it seems.  I’m not above a plan like this if I’m convinced it’s necessary.  But somehow....  Oh, I know what you’re thinking—­you’re thinking that beggars shouldn’t be choosers.  Well, I’m not quite a beggar yet.  But when I am, I won’t choose....  I’ll promise you that.”

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown rose also.  She was in a position to triumph in any case, and she was washing her hands of the situation with eager satisfaction.  “Oh, indeed!  I’m glad you can say that now.  But you weren’t always so independent.  I suppose it never occurs to you to thank me for what I did when you were younger.”

Claire felt quite calm.  The events of the past twenty-four hours had wrung her emotions dry.  “Yes, Aunt Julia,” she said, with an air of cool defiance, “it occurred to me many times....  Perhaps if I’d had any choice....”

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown grew pale.  “It’s plain that I’m wasting my time here!” she sneered.

Claire went with her aunt to the door....

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown did not cross the threshold of the Robson home again, and when on the following day Claire saw the figure of Mrs. Thomas Wynne outlined against the lace-screened front door she let the bell ring unanswered.