“Ill! He was as strong as an ox. He ate and ate.... And he just calmly went off.... He said he was going into the city to get some money from the bank, and would come back on the last train, and never did. And he owed for five weeks.”
She wiped her eyes sternly and went on.
“Grandma’s so mean and petty about it. Keeps saying ‘I told you so, Miss.’ You know she never did. She liked him more than anyone did. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Frances did her best to console the frustrated Minnie.
“Maybe he’ll come back,” she suggested, inanely.
“He’d better not!” said Minnie, “Nasty, lazy cheat! Oh, Frankie, I will admit that I was deceived in that man!”
Obviously this was no moment in which to tell her news. With patience and good temper Frankie waited, listened to the long and harrowing story of Mr. Blair and said what she could to heal her sister’s wound. She was really distressed about Minnie, she was so unlike her usual self; she was severe and cold. It would be nothing less than cruel to tell the poor soul of her own good-fortune.
So she kept it to herself all the afternoon. With the superstition so natural to the happy, she fancied she was making her happiness more secure, earning it, in a way, by repressing and disciplining herself, pretending to take an interest in the affairs of the household, effacing herself and her important news.
No one questioned her; they were absorbed in their own calamity. The old lady showed her a sort of diary of the expenses incurred by Mr. Blair, “to say nothing of the extra work.” She did crow over Minnie without mercy; she was vindicated, once more the infallible adult, competent to guide and rebuke youth. Minnie said very little; she had, however, a sinister air of having something up her sleeve.