“Yes,” Rose said.  “That’s mother.  And I guess she’s right about it.  It must be horrible to be half alive;—­to know you’re no use and never will be.  Only I don’t believe it will be that way with her.  I believe you told her the truth without knowing it.  It’s just a feeling, but I’m sure of it.  She’ll get strong and well again out there.  You’ll think so, too, when you get rested up a little.—­You’re so frightfully tired, poor dear.  It makes me sick to think what a week you’ve had.  And that you’ve gone through it all alone;—­without ever giving Rodney and me a chance to help.  I don’t see why you did that, Portia.”

“Oh, I saw it was my job,” Portia said, in that cool dry way of hers.  “It couldn’t work out any other way.  It had to be done and there was no one else to do it.  So what was the use of making a fuss?  It was easier, really, without, and—­I didn’t want any extra difficulties.”

“But all the work there must have been!” Rose protested.  “Selling your shop, and all.  How did you ever manage to do it?”

“That was luck, of course,” Portia admitted.  “Do you know that Craig woman?  You may have met her.  She’s rather on the fringe of your set, I believe.  She’s got a good deal of money and nothing to do, and I think she’s got a fool notion that it’ll be chic to go ‘into trade.’  She came and offered to buy me out a month ago, and of course I wouldn’t listen.  But just by luck she called me up again the very day I went to talk to the specialist.  I asked for twenty-four hours to think it over, and by that time I’d made up my mind.  I got a very good price from her, really.  She bought the whole thing; lease, stock and good-will.”

It wasn’t more than a very subconscious impression in the back of Rose’s mind, that Portia must be pretty callous and cold to have been able on the very day of the doctor’s sentence to look as far ahead as that, and to drive a good bargain on the next—­awfully efficient, anyway.  “I wish I was more like you,” she said.

But she didn’t want to be questioned as to just what she meant by it and, aware that Portia had just shot a queer searching look at her, she changed the subject, or thought she did.

“Anyway, I’m glad it worked out so well for you,” she went on; “selling the shop so easily, and all.  And I believe it’ll do you as much good as mother.  Getting a rest....  You do need it.  You’re worked right down to the bones.  And out there where it’s warm and bright all the time, and you don’t have to get up in the dark any more winter mornings and wade off through the slush to the street-car....  And a nice little bungalow to live in—­just you and mother....  I—­I sort of wish I was going too.”

Portia laughed—­a ragged, unnatural sounding laugh that brought a look of puzzled inquiry from Rose.

“Why, nothing,” Portia explained.  “It was just the notion of your leaving Rodney and all you’ve got here—­all the wonderful things you have to do—­for what we’ll have out there.  The idea of your envying me is something worth a small laugh, don’t you think?”