"To your gain," he returned. He had little respect for the woman beside him, and was annoyed at her intrusion.
"I thought I answered your note," he continued. "I certainly intended doing so."
"Oh, you did!" Miss Sturtevant said, leaning upon his arm more heavily. "But a note is a poor substitute for a call from one to whom one is attached."
"I hope," the lawyer observed briskly, determined not to be drawn into a scene, "that you have sold out. I see by the morning paper that the vote has been reconsidered, and the Branch is not to be bought, after all: I suspected it would be so, all the time. The whole thing was only the work of speculators, and I hope you were as lucky as I in getting rid of your paper at the flood."
"What!" cried his companion,—"reconsidered? You do not mean that the Branch isn't to be bought? Uncle Jacob promised"—
"The Branch certainly is not to be bought," Putnam repeated. "The corporation has no use for it, and never had. You haven't held your stock?"
"I have," she answered, pressing her thin lips together. "I am completely beggared. Good-night. I must have time to think."
"I wish I had known," Tom said, standing upon the step below her; for they had reached the Browns' door. "I supposed you knew all about the stock."
"I thought I did," she answered in a strained, thin voice. "It seems I was mistaken. Good-night."
She went in, and the door closed behind her. Tom walked home, kicking his boot-toes out against every pebble, divided between disapproval and pity.