Ora scanned her friend's face anxiously and timidly. She was speculating on the amount of sympathy to be expected; she knew that on occasion Irene could be almost as unjust as Alice Muddock. She was afraid that Irene would break out on her. Irene was in no such mood; coldly, critically, jealously observant, she waited for this woman to throw new lights on herself, to exhibit the kind of creature she was, to betray her weakness and to explain her power.
"Can't you make up your mind whether to go or not?" she asked with a smile.
"If you only knew what going means to me!" cried Ora. Suddenly she rose and flung herself on her knees beside her friend. Irene had an impulse to push her away; but she sat quite still and suffered Ora to take her hand. "You see, he can't come with me," Ora went on, with a pathetic air which seemed to bemoan the wanton impossibility of what might, had it been so disposed, have been quite possible.
"Who can't go with you? Mr. Mead?"
"Yes, Ashley; who else could I mean?"
"Well, I don't suppose he can." Irene gave a short laugh.
"No," said Ora resentfully. "He can't, you see." She looked up in Irene's face. "At least I suppose he can't?" she said in a coaxing voice; then dreariness conquered and reigned in her whole air as she added mournfully, "Anyhow, I'm sure he won't."
"I hope to goodness he won't," said Irene Bowdon.
Ora drew a little away, as though surprised; then she nodded and smiled faintly.
"I knew you'd say that," she remarked.