"Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her. Be good enough to move your chair to one side, if you please," snapped Cornelia.
"That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you. We are all to spend the evening with her next week—you, and your brother, and I. A mere 'sociable,' she says." She had been admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky auburn curls. Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls—blank, soulless, expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of self-satisfaction. Beulah's quiet dignity failed to repel the continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her shawl, she rose.
"Don't go," said Cornelia earnestly.
"I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon."
"When will you come again?" Cornelia took her hand and pressed it warmly.
"I really do not know. I hope you will be better soon."
"Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening with us. What shall I tell him?"
"Nothing."
"I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this prison-house of mine. Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and sit with me?"
"That depends upon circumstances. If you are sick and lonely, I certainly will. Good-by."