“Thank you,” she said; and seated herself at the table to write.
But there was the dilapidated hat again––so stained and soiled, a crumpled, tragic, intimate thing––arresting her. How it had filled her dreams! How she had laughed at it, fondly, tenderly, as a mother smiles at the battered school hat of her boy! Once, she had fancied it hanging on the pink wall in her room, a trophy, with a ribbon tied around its sweated band. And now she wanted to grab it up, and hug it to her breast. But she only lifted it gently, and placed it a little farther away, on the other side of the table. Then she made her notes.
“There, Robert!” she said, rising, and handing the list to him. “Claire will know where to find them.”
He took the paper mechanically, his eyes fixed on Marion.
“Will you come down, to the car for a moment?” he asked.
She saw the look, and softened under it. But she could not answer his questions then.
“No,” she said. “Later, if you wish it.”
For a moment he hesitated. But he could say no more in the presence of Smythe and Pete, though they were talking together at the other side of the room. So he moved slowly away, but was suddenly stopped by a cry from Marion.
“Oh! Oh!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t somebody––why didn’t I think of it before? The car? Run, Robert! Drive down the road toward the lake. You’ll overtake the sorrels––or meet them. Bring the doctor in the car. Fast, please!”