“Of course not to pack your trunk?”

“Cora,” he returned, goaded; “sometimes you’re just impossible.  I’ll come to-morrow 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 to-morrow.  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?”

“I don’t know about that,” said Cora moodily.  “He might object to some things—­but it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to try him.  I don’t mind a man’s being a fool, but I can’t stand the absent-minded breed of idiot.  I’ve worn his diamond in the pendant right in his eyes for weeks; he’s never once noticed it enough even to ask me about the pendant, but bores me to death