"But explain to me about Quebec."
"Mrs. Spaulding has written to me and asked me to join her there. Here is the letter; read it."
She handed the letter to him; it had reached her that morning most opportunely. Hartley took it, and read:
Château Frontenac, Quebec City.
"My Darling Child:
"I am dying of loneliness up here in this dreary old town. Alfred has gone up in the woods to shoot moose or something, and Heaven only knows when he'll be back. I have decided that you and Mr. Hartley had better take a holiday and run up here and join me for the rest of the week; and then we can all come down together. I refuse to take 'no' for an answer."
"That's really all," Cordelia broke in; "the rest is simply orders about the servants and messages to dressmakers and that sort of thing."
He handed the letter back to her, disheartened, depressed.
"Could you come?" she asked him hesitatingly.
He thought over it; he scarcely saw how he could, but a desire to be near her seemed to be shouldering out all other feelings.
"I should like to go, but—well, to be candid, I really can't afford it just now."
"That doesn't count!" she cried happily.