Her mother sniffed again.
“Mrs. Wells never knows anything, my dear.” Feeling Corinne’s fingers in her hair presently, she snapped:
“What are you doing?”
“You left some of your curl-papers in. They look so funny. And your bonnet is crooked.”
“I don’t stop to think of my appearance when a friend needs my help. But you can laugh in the house of a dying woman you pretend to care for.”
This was so unjust that Corinne burst into tears.
“She’s not dying! I just love Mrs. Mearely. She shan’t die,” she cried, between her sobs; and threw herself face downward on the settee to weep in comfort. Her mother was not disturbed by the salt storm, but, on patting her hair and finding one curl-paper still there, she became furious.
“Corinne! stop that nonsense and fix my hair. What in the world are you crying about? Do be cheerful. Your mother has enough to bear.”
Corinne, weeping heavily, dragged herself up from the settee and went to her parent. She removed the last paper spiral obediently and straightened the little turban, which had been sitting on its wearer’s head at an impossible angle. Mrs. Witherby, meanwhile, pursued her own train of thought.
“I do hope she has made her will.”