He went out then, only to come hurriedly back, reporting,
"I cain't find any wood—whar does Lance keep it?" 205
Lance's wife hung her head, lips pressed tight together, striving for resolution to answer this with a smooth lie.
"He don't go off and leave you in this kind of weather without any wood?" inquired Hands hoarsely.
"Yes—he does," Callista choked. And, having opened the bottle a bit, out poured the hot wine of her wrath. All the things that she might have said to her mother had she been on good terms with that lady; the taunts that occurred to her in Lance's absence and which she failed to utter to him when he came; these rushed pell-mell into speech. She was white and shaking when she made an end.
"There," she said tragically, getting to her feet. "I reckon I had no business to name one word of this to you, Flenton; but I'm the most miserable creature that ever lived, I do think; and I ain't got a soul on this earth that cares whether or not about me. And—and—"
She broke off, locking her hands tightly and staring down at them.
Flenton had the sense and the self-control not to approach her, not to introduce too promptly the personal note.
"Callista," he began cautiously, assuming as nearly as possible the tone of an unbiased friend to both parties, "you ort to quit 206 Lance. He ain't doin' you right. There's more than you know of in this business; and whether you stay thar or not, you ort to quit him oncet and go home to yo' folks."
Callista made an inarticulate sound of denial.