“No, no,” cried Fanny. “See, he has not taken his cane and umbrella.”
“They will not keep him from flying to his money and her,” moaned Zoe. “Did you not see? He never once looked at me. He could not. I am sick at heart.”
This set Fanny fluttering. “There, let me out to speak to him.”
“Sit quiet,” said Zoe, sternly.
“No; no. If you love him—”
“I do love him—passionately. And therefore I'll die rather than share him with any one.”
“But it is dreadful to be fixed here, and not allowed to move hand or foot.”
“It is the lot of women. Let me feel the hand of a friend, that is all; for I am sick at heart.”
Fanny gave her her hand, and all the sympathy her shallow nature had to bestow.
Zoe sat motionless, gripping her friend's hand almost convulsively, a statue of female fortitude.