"I don't like his look. He was most polite.... I think he could have killed me."
"Nonsense!" Claire returned, boldly. "You're drawing on your imagination. I want to do it.... I have a reason."
She realized the absurdity of such a statement as soon as Mrs. Condor had departed. A reason! And her mother was dying—dying! What would people think? Unconsciously the old question framed itself.
Danilo came in as usual, close upon the heels of Mrs. Condor.
"Your mother is slightly better," he said to Claire. "She may last another month."
Claire tried to ignore the insolence of his brevity.
"I wish you would do me a favor," she ventured, boldly. "I've been trying to get Nellie Holmes on the telephone all day.... Would you mind asking her if she could come and stay with mother to-morrow night from eight o'clock to about ten? I hate to leave Miss Proll all the responsibility."
He merely bowed his acquiescence. She felt her cheeks burning. He had done none of the things she had expected him to do—asked none of the questions. At least she had expected him to say:
"Oh, then you have decided to appear to-morrow?"
No, he had insulted her with his silence, pretending to be neither surprised nor shocked. But his attitude confirmed her in the determination to carry out her part of the program.